ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 


ADVENTURES 
IN    THE    ARTS 


INFORMAL 
CHAPTERS 
ON  PAINTERS 
VAUDEVILLE 
AND  POETS 


BY 

MARSDEN  HARTLEY 


BONI    AND   LIVERIGHT 

Publishers  New  York 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 
COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 

BONI  &  LlVERIGHT,   INC. 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


N 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

The  papers  in  this  book  are  not  intended  in  any 
way  to  be  professional  treatises.  They  must  be 
viewed  in  the  light  of  entertaining  conversations. 
Their  possible  value  lies  in  their  directness  of  im 
pulse,  and  not  in  weight  of  argument.  I  could  not 
wish  to  go  into  the  qualities  of  art  more  deeply. 
A  reaction,  to  be  pleasant,  must  be  simple.  This 
is  the  apology  I  have  to  offer:  Reactions,  then, 
through  direct  impulse,  and  not  essays  by  means  of 

stiffened  analysis. 

MARSDEN  HARTLEY. 


466555 


Some  of  the  papers  included  in 
this  book  have  appeared  in  Art  and 
Archeology,  The  Seven  Ar?s,  The 
Dial,  The  Nation,  The  New  Re 
public,  and  The  Touchstone.  Thanks 
are  due  to  the  editors  of  these 
periodicals  for  permission  to  re 
print. 


TO 

ALFRED  STIEGLITZ 


INTRODUCTION 

TO 

ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

PERHAPS  the  most  important  part  of  Criticism 
is  the  fact  that  it  presents  to  the  creator  a  prob 
lem  which  is  never  solved.  Criticism  is  to  him  a 
perpetual  Presence:  or  perhaps  a  ghost  which  he 
will  not  succeed  in  laying.  If  he  could  satisfy  his 
mind  that  Criticism  was  a  certain  thing:  a  good 
thing  or  a  bad,  a  proper  presence  or  an  irrelevant, 
he  could  psychologically  dispose  of  it.  But  he  can 
not.  For  Criticism  is  a  configuration  of  responses 
and  reactions  so  intricate,  so  kaleidoscopic,  that  it 
would  be  as  simple  to  category  Life  itself. 

The  artist  remains  the  artist  precisely  in  so  far  as 
he  rejects  the  simplifying  and  reducing  process  of 
the  average  man  who  at  an  early  age  puts  Life  I 
away  into  some  snug  conception  of  his  mind  and  | 
race.     This  one  turns  the  key.     He  has  released 
his  will  and  love  from  the  vast  Ceremonial  of  won 
der,  from  the  deep  Poem  of  Being,  into  some  par 
ticular  detail  of  life  wherein  he  hopes  to  achieve 
comfort  or  at  least  shun  pain.     Not  so,  the  artist. 
In  the  moment  when  he  elects  to  avoid  by  whatever 

xi 


INTRODUCTION 

makeshift  the  raw  agony  of  life,  he  ceases  to  be  fit 
to  create.  He  must  face  experience  forever 
freshly:  reduce  life  each  day  anew  to  chaos  and 
•  remould  it  into  order. .  He  must  be  always  a  willing 
virgin,  given  up  to  life  and  so  enlacing  it.  Thus 
only  may  he  retain  and  record  that  pure  surprise 
whose  earliest  voicing  is  the  first  cry  of  the  infant. 

The  unresolved  expectancy  of  the  creator  toward 
Life  should  be  his  way  toward  Criticism  also.  He 
should  hold  it  as  part  of  his  Adventure.  He  should 
understand  in  it,  particularly  when  it  is  impertinent, 
stupid  and  cruel,  the  ponderable  weight  of  Life 
itself,  reacting  upon  his  search  for  a  fresh  conquest 
over  it.  Though  it  persist  unchanged  in  its  role  of 
purveying  misinformation  and  absurdity  to  the  Pub 
lic,  he  should  know  it  for  himself  a  blessed  dis 
pensation. 

With  his  maturity,  the  creator's  work  goes  out 
into  the  world.  And  in  this  act,  he  puts  the  world 
away.  For  the  artist's  work  defines :  and  definition 
means  apartness :  and  the  average  man  is  undefined 
in  the  social  body.  Here  is  a  danger  for  the  artist 
within  the  very  essence  of  his  artistic  virtue.  Dur 
ing  the  years  of  his  apprenticeship,  he  has  struggled 
to  create  for  himself  an  essential  world  out  of  ex 
perience.  Now  he  begins  to  succeed:  and  he  lives 
too  fully  in  his  own  selection :  he  lives  too  simply  in 
the  effects  of  his  effort.  The  gross  and  fumbling 
impact  of  experience  is  eased.  The  grind  of  ordi 
nary  intercourse  is  dimmed.  The  rawness  of  Fam- 

xii 


INTRODUCTION 

ily  and  Business  is  refined  or  removed.  But  now 
once  more  the  world  comes  in  to  him,  in  the  form 
of  the  Critic.  Here  again,  in  a  sharp  concentrated 
sense,  the  world  moves  on  him:  its  complacency, 
its  hysteria,  its  down-tending  appetites  and  fond  il 
lusions,  its  pathetic  worship  of  yesterdays  and 
hatred  of  tomorrows,  its  fear-dogmas  and  its  blood- 
avowals. 

The  artist  shall  leave  the  world  only  to  find  it,  j 
hate  it  only  because  he  loves,  attack  it  only  if  he  ^ 
serves.     At  that  epoch  of  his  life  when  the  world's 
gross  sources  may  grow  dim,  Criticism  brings  them 
back.     Wherefore,  the  function  of  the  Critic  is  a 
blessing  and  a  need. 

The  creator's  reception  of  this  newly  direct,  in 
tense,  mundane  intrusion  is  not  always  passive.  If 
the  artist  is  an  intelligent  man,  he  may  respond  to 
the  intervening  world  on  its  own  plane.  He  may 
turn  critic  himself. 

When  the  creator  turns  critic,  we  are  in  the  pres 
ence  of  a  consummation :  we  have  a  complete  experi 
ence  :  we  have  a  sort  of  sacrament.  For  to  the  in 
trusion  of  the  world  he  interposes  his  own  body.  In 
his  art,  the  creator's  body  would  be  itself  intrusion. 
The  artist  is  too  humble  and  too  sane  to  break  the  ; 
ecstatic  flow  of  vision  with  his  personal  form.  The 
true  artist  despises  the  personal  as  an  end.  He 
makes  fluid,  and  distils  his  personal  form.  He 
channels  it  beyond  himself  to  a  Unity  which  of 
course  contains  it.  But  Criticism  is  nothing  which 

xiii 


INTRODUCTION 

is  not  the  sheer  projection  of  a  body.  The  artist 
turns  Self  into  a  universal  Form:  but  the  critic  re 
duces  Form  to  Self.  Criticism  is  to  the  artist  the 
intrusion,  in  a  form  irreducible  to  art,  of  the  body 
of  the  world.  What  can  he  do  but  interpose  his 
own? 

This  is  the  value  of  the  creator's  criticism.  He 
gives  to  the  world  himself.  And  his  self  is  a  rich 
life. 

It  includes  for  instance  a  direct  experience  of  art, 
the  which  no  professional  critic  may  possess.  And 
it  includes  as  well  a  direct  knowledge  of  life,  sharp 
ened  in  the  retrospect  of  that  devotion  to  the  living 
which  is  peculiarly  the  artist's.  For  what  is  the 
critic  after  all,  but  an  uartistic"  individual  somehow 
impeded  from  satisfying  his  esthetic  emotion  and 
his  need  of  esthetic  form  in  the  gross  and  stubborn 
stuff  of  life  itself:  who  therefore,  since  he  is  too 
intelligent  for  substitutes,  resorts  to  the  already 
digested  matter  of  the  hardier  creators,  takes  their 
assimilated  food  and  does  with  it  what  the  athletic 
artist  does  with  the  meat  and  lymph  and  bone  of 
God  himself?  The  artist  mines  from  the  earth  and 
smelts  with  his  own  fire.  He  is  higher  brother  to 
the  toilers  of  the  soil.  The  critic  takes  the  prod 
ucts  of  the  creator,  reforges,  twists  them,  always  in 
the  cold.  For  if  he  had  the  fire  to  melt,  he  would 
not  stay  with  metals  already  worked:  when  the 
earth's  womb  bursts  with  richer. 

When  the  creator  turns  critic,  we  are  certain  of 
xiv 


INTRODUCTION 

a  feast.  We  have  a  fare  that  needs  no  metaphysi 
cal  sauce  (such  as  must  transform  the  product  of 
the  Critic).  Here  is  good  food.  Go  to  it  and 
eat.  The  asides  of  a  Baudelaire,  a  Goethe,  a  Da 
Vinci  outweight  a  thousand  tomes  of  the  profes 
sional  critics. 


I  know  of  no  American  book  like  this  one  by 
Marsden  Hartley.  I  do  not  believe  American 
painting  heretofore  capable  of  so  vital  a  response 
and  of  so  athletic  an  appraisal.  Albert  Ryder  bar 
ricaded  himself  from  the  world's  intrusion.  The 
American  world  was  not  intelligent  enough  in  his 
days  to  touch  him  to  an  activer  response.  And 
Ryder,  partaking  of  its  feebleness,  from  his  devo 
tion  to  the  pure  subjective  note  became  too  ex 
hausted  for  aught  else.  As  a  world  we  have  ad 
vanced.  We  have  a  fully  functioning  Criticism  .  .  . 
swarms  and  schools  of  makers  of  the  sonorous  com 
placencies  of  Judgment.  We  have  an  integral  body 
of  creative-minded  men  and  women  interposing  it 
self  with  valiance  upon  the  antithesis  of  the  social 
resistance  to  social  growth.  Hartley  is  in  some 
ways  a  continuance  of  Ryder.  One  stage  is  Ryder, 
the  solitary  who  remained  one.  A  second  stage  is 
Hartley,  the  solitary  who  stands  against  the  more 
aggressive,  more  interested  Marketplace. 

You  will  find  in  this  book  the  artist  of  a  cultural 
epoch.  This  man  has  mastered  the  plastic  mes- 

xv 


INTRODUCTION 

sages  of  modern  Europe :  he  has  gone  deep  in  the 
classic  forms  of  the  ancient  Indian  Dance.  But  he 
is,  still,  not  very  far  from  Ryder.  He  is  always 
the  child — whatever  wise  old  worlds  he  contemplates 
— the  child,  wistful,  poignant,  trammeled,  of  New 
England. 

Hartley  has  adventured  not  alone  deep  but  wide. 
He  steps  from  New  Mexico  to  Berlin,  from  the 
salons  of  the  Paris  of  Marie  Laurencin  to  the  dust 
and  tang  of  the  American  Circus.  He  is  eclectic. 
But  wherever  he  goes  he  chronicles  not  so  much 
these  actual  worlds  as  his  own  pleasure  of  them. 
They  are  but  mirrors,  many-shaped  and  lighted, 
for  his  own  delicate,  incisive  humor.  For  Hartley 
is  an  innocent  and  a  naif.  At  times  he  is  profound. 
Always  he  is  profoundly  simple. 

Tragedy  and  Comedy  are  adult.  The  child's 
world  is  Tragicomic.  So  Marsden  Hartley's.  He 
is  not  deep  enough — like  most  of  our  Moderns — 
in  the  pregnant  chaos  to  be  submerged  in  blackness 
by  the  hot  struggle  of  the  creative  will.  He  may 
weep,  but  he  can  smile  next  moment  at  a  pretty 
song.  He  may  be  hurt,  but  he  gets  up  to  dance. 

In  this  book — the  autobiography  of  a  creator — 
Marsden  Hartley  peers  variously  into  the  modern 
world:  but  it  is  in  search  of  Fairies. 

WALDO  FRANK. 
Lisbon,  June,  1921. 


xvi 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


INTRODUCTION  BY  WALDO  FRANK     ...  xi 

Foreword 

CONCERNING  FAIRY  TALES  AND  ME  3 

Part  One 

1.  THE  RED  MAN 13 

2.  WHITMAN  AND  CEZANNE 30 

3.  RYDER 37 

4.  WINSLOW  HOMER 42 

5.  AMERICAN  VALUES  IN  PAINTING       ...  50 

6.  MODERN  ART  IN  AMERICA 59 

7.  OUR  IMAGINATIVES 65 

8.  OUR  IMPRESSIONISTS 74 

9.  ARTHUR  B.  DAVIES 80 

10.     REX  SLINKARD 87 

n.     SOME  AMERICAN  WATER-COLORISTS  ...  96 

12.  THE  APPEAL  OF  PHOTOGRAPHY    ....  102 

13.  SOME  WOMEN  ARTISTS 112 

14.  REVALUATIONS  IN  IMPRESSIONISM     .      .     .  120 

15.  ODILON  REDON 126 

xvii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

1 6.  THE  VIRTUES  OF  AMATEUR  PAINTING    .     .  134 

17.  HENRI  ROUSSEAU 144 

Part  Two 

1 8.  THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  ACROBAT      .     .     .  155 

19.  VAUDEVILLE 162 

20.  A  CHARMING  EQUESTRIENNE       .     .     .     .  175 

21.  JOHN  BARRYMORE  IN  PETER  IBBETSON    .     .  182 

Part  Three 

22.  LA  CLOSERIE  DE  LILAS 19 l 

23.  EMILY  DICKINSON 198 

24.  ADELAIDE  CRAPSEY 207 

25.  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 215 

26.  ERNEST  DOWSON 221 

27.  HENRY  JAMES  ON  RUPERT  BROOKE    .     .      .  228 

28.  THE  DEARTH  OF  CRITICS 238 

Afterword 

THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  BEING  "DADA"      .     .  247 


xviu 


FOREWORD 


CONCERNING  FAIRY  TALES 
AND  ME 

SOMETIMES  I  think  myself  one  of  the  unique  chil 
dren  among  children.  I  never  read  a  fairy  story 
in  my  childhood.  I  always  had  the  feeling  as  a 
child,  that  fairy  stories  were  for  grown-ups  and 
were  best  understood  by  them,  and  for  that  rea 
son  I  think  it  must  have  been  that  I  postponed  them. 
I  found  them,  even  at  sixteen,  too  involved  and  mys 
tifying  to  take  them  in  with  quite  the  simple  gulli 
bility  that  is  necessary.  But  that  was  because  I  was 
left  alone  with  the  incredibly  magical  reality  from 
morning  until  nightfall,  and  the  nights  meant  noth 
ing  more  remarkable  to  me  than  the  days  did,  no 
more  than  they  do  now.  I  find  moonlight  merely 
another  species  of  illumination  by  which  one  reg 
isters  continuity  of  sensation.  My  nursery  was  al 
ways  on  the  edge  of  the  strangers'  knee,  wondering 
who  they  were,  what  they  might  even  mean  to  those 
who  were  as  is  called  "nearest"  them. 

I  had  a  childhood  vast  with  terror  and  surprise. 
If  it  is  true  that  one  forgets  what  one  wishes  to 
forget,  then  I  have  reason  for  not  remembering  the 
major  part  of  those  days  and  hours  that  are  sup 
posed  to  introduce  one  graciously  into  the  world  and 


CONCERNING  FAIRY  TALES 

offer  one  a  clue  to  the  experience  that  is  sure  to  fol 
low.  Not  that  my  childhood  was  so  bitter,  unless 
for  childhood  loneliness  is  bitterness,  and  without 
doubt  it  is  the  worst  thing  that  can  happen  to  one's 
childhood.  [Mine  was  merely  a  different  childhood, 
and  in  this  sense  an  original  one.  I  was  left  with 
myself  to  discover  myself  amid  the  multitudinous 
other  and  far  greater  mysteries.7  I  was  never  the 
victim  of  fear  of  goblins  and  ghosts  because  I  was 
never  taught  them.  [I  was  merely  taught  by  nature 
to  follow,  as  if  led  by  a  rare  and  tender  hand,  the 
then  almost  unendurable  beauty  that  lay  on  every 
side  of  me.  It  was  pain  then,  to  follow  beauty, 
because  I  didn't  understand  beauty;  it  must  always, 
I  think,  be  distressing  to  follow  anything  one  does 
not  understands 

I  used  to  go,  in  my  earliest  school  days,  into  a  lit 
tle  strip  of  woodland  not  far  from  the  great  omi 
nous  red  brick  building  in  a  small  manufacturing 
town,  on  the  edge  of  a  wonderful  great  river  in 
Maine,  from  which  cool  and  quiet  spot  I  could 
always  hear  the  dominant  clang  of  the  bell,  and 
there  I  could  listen  with  all  my  very  boyish  sim 
plicity  to  the  running  of  the  water  over  the  stones, 
and  watch — for  it  was  spring,  of  course — the  new 
leaves  pushing  up  out  of  the  mould,  and  see  the 
light-hued  blossoms  swinging  on  the  new  breeze.  I 
cared  more  for  these  in  themselves  than  I  did  for 
any  legendary  presences  sitting  under  them,  shak 
ing  imperceptible  fingers  and  waving  invisible  wands 

4 


AND  ME 

with  regality  in  a  world  made  only  for  them  and 
for  children  who  were  taught  mechanically  to  see 
them  there. 

(l  was  constantly  confronted  with  the  magic  of 
reality  itself,  wondering  why  one  thing  was  built 
of  exquisite  curves  and  another  of  harmonic  angles. 
It  was  not  a  scientific  passion  in  me,  it  was  merely 
my  sensing  of  the  world  of  visible  beauty  around 
me,  pressing  in  on  me  with  the  vehemence  of  splen 
dor,  on  every  side.} 

I  feel  about  the  world  now  precisely  as  I  did 
then,  despite  all  the  reasons  that  exist  to  encourage 
the  change  of  attitude.  \I  care  for  the  magic  of  ex 
perience  still,  the  magic  that  exists  even  in  facts, 
though  little  or  nothing  for  the  objective  material 
value.  1 

Life  as  an  idea  engrosses  me  with  the  same  ar 
dor  as  in  the  earlier  boyish  days,  with  the  difference 
that  there  is  much  to  admire  and  so  much  less  to 
reverence  and  be  afraid  of.  I  harp  always  on  the 
"idea"  of  life  as  I  dwell  perpetually  on  the  exist 
ence  of  the  moment. 

I  might  say,  then,  that  my  childhood  was  com 
parable,  in  its  simplicity  and  extravagance  of  won 
der,  to  the  youth  of  Odilon  Redon,  that  remarkable 
painter  of  the  fantasy  of  existence,  of  which  he 
speaks  so  delicately  in  letters  to  friends.  His  youth 
was  apparently  much  like  mine,  not  a  youth  of  ath 
leticism  so  much  as  a  preoccupancy  with  wonder  and 
the  imminence  of  beauty  surrounding  all  things. 

5 


CONCERNING  FAIRY  TALES 

I  was  preoccupied  with  the  "being"  of  things. 
Things  in  themselves  engrossed  me  more  than  the 
problem  of  experience.  I  was  satisfied  with  the 
effect  of  things  upon  my  senses,  and  cared  nothing 
for  their  deeper  values.  The  inherent  magic  in  the 
appearance  of  the  world  about  me,  engrossed  and 
amazed  me.  No  cloud  or  blossom  or  bird  or  hu 
man  ever  escaped  me,  I  think. 

I  was  not  indifferent  to  anything  that  took  shape 
before  me,  though  when  it  came  to  people  I  was 
less  credulous  of  their  perfection  because  they 
pressed  forward  their  not  always  certain  credentials 
upon  me.  I  reverenced  them  then  too  much  for 
an  imagined  austerity  as  I  admire  them  now  perhaps 
not  enough  for  their  charm,  for  it  is  the  charm  of 
things  and  people  only  that  engages  and  satisfies 
me.  I  have  completed  my  philosophical  equations, 
and  have  become  enamored  of  people  as  having  the 
same  propensities  as  all  other  objects  of  nature. 
One  need  never  question  appearances.  One  accepts 
them  for  their  face  value,  as  the  camera  accepts 
them,  without  recommendation  or  specialized  quali 
fication.  They  are  what  they  become  to  one.  The 
capacity  for  legend  comes  out  of  the  capacity  for 
experience,  and  it  is  in  this  fashion  that  I  hold  such 
high  respect  for  geniuses  like  Grimm  and  Andersen, 
but  as  I  know  their  qualities  I  find  myself  leaning 
with  more  readiness  toward  Lewis  Carroll's  superb 
"Alice  in  Wonderland." 

I    was,    I    suppose,    born    backward,    physically 

6 


AND  ME 

speaking.  I  was  confronted  with  the  vastitude  of 
the  univejrse  at  once,  without  the  ingratiating  intro 
duction  of  the  fairy  tale.  I  had  early  made  the 
not  so  inane  decision  that  I  would  not  read  a  book 
until  I  really  wanted  to.  One  of  the  rarest  women 
in  the  world,  having  listened  to  my  remark,  said 
she  had  a  book  she  knew  I  would  like  because  it 
was  so  different,  and  forthwith  presented  me  with 
Emerson's  Essays,  the  first  book  that  I  have  any 
knowledge  of  reading,  and  it  was  in  my  eighteenth 
year.  Until  then  I  had  been  wholly  absorbed  with 
the  terrors  and  the  majestical  inferences  of  the  mo 
ment,  the  hour,  and  the  day.  I  was  alone  with  them, 
and  they  were  wonderful  and  excessively  baffling  in 
their  splendors;  then,  after  filling  my  mind  and  soul 
with  the  legendary  splendors  of  Friendship,  and 
The  Oversoul-Circles,  and  Compensation,  each  of 
these  words  of  exciting  largeness  in  themselves,  I 
turned  to  the  dramatic  unrealities  of  Zarathustra, 
which,  of  course,  was  in  no  way  to  be  believed  be 
cause  it  did  not  exist.  And  then  came  expansion 
and  release  into  the  outer  world  again  through  in 
terpretation  of  Plato,  and  of  Leaves  of  Grass  itself. 

I  have  saved  myself  from  the  disaster  of  beliefs 
through  these  magical  books,  and  am  free  once 
more  as  in  my  early  childhood  to  indulge  myself 
in  the  iridescent  idea  of  life,  as  Idea. 

But  the  fairy  story  is  nothing  after  all  but  a 
means  whereby  we,  as  children,  may  arrive  at  some 
clue  as  to  the  significance  of  things  around  us,  and 


CONCERNING  FAIRY  TALES 

it  is  through  them  the  child  finds  his  way  out  from 
incoherency  toward  comprehension.  The  universe 
is  a  vast  place,  as  we  all  know  who  think  we  com 
prehend  it  in  admiring  it.  The  things  we  cannot 
know  are  in  reality  of  no  consequence,  in  comparison 
with  the  few  we  can  know.  I  can  know,  for  in 
stance,  that  my  morning  is  the  new  era  of  my  exist 
ence,  and  that  I  shall  never  live  through  another  like 
it,  as  I  have  never  lived  through  the  one  I  recall  in 
my  memory,  which  was  Yesterday.  Yesterday  was 
my  event  in  experience  then,  as  it  is  my  event  in 
memory  now.  I  am  related  to  the  world  by  the  way 
I  feel  attached  to  the  life  of  it  as  exemplified  in  the 
vividness  of  the  moment.  I  am,  by  reason  of  my 
peculiar  personal  experience,  enabled  to  extract  the 
magic  from  the  moment,  discarding  the  material 
husk  of  it  precisely  as  the  squirrel  does  the  shell  of 
the  nut. 

I  am  preoccupied  with  the  business  of  transmuta 
tion — which  is  to  say,  the  proper  evaluation  of  life 
as  idea,  of  experience  as  delectable  diversion.  It 
is  necesary  for  everyone  to  poetize  his  sensations  in 
order  to  comprehend  them.  Weakness  in  the  di 
rection  of  philosophy  creates  the  quality  of  dogmatic 
interrogation.  A  preoccupancy  with  religious  char 
acteristics  assists  those  who  are  interested  in  the 
problem  of  sublimation.  The  romanticist  is  a  kind 
of  scientific  person  engaged  in  the  correct  assem 
bling  of  chemical  constituents  that  will  produce  a 
formula  by  which  he  can  live  out  every  one  of  his 

8 


AND  ME 

moments  with  a  perfect  comprehension  of  their 
charm  and  of  their  everlasting  value  to  him.  If 
the  romanticist  have  the  advantage  of  comprehen 
sion  of  the  sense  of  beauty  as  related  to  art,  then 
he  may  be  said  to  be  wholly  equipped  for  the  ex 
quisite  legend  of  life  in  which  he  takes  his  place, 
as  factor  in  the  perfected  memory  of  existence,  which 
becomes  the  real  history  of  life,  as  an  idea.  The 
person  of  most  power  in  life  is  he  who  becomes 
high  magician  with  the  engaging  and  elusive  trick. 

It  is  a  fairy-tale  in  itself  if  you  will,  and  everyone 
is  entitled  to  his  or  her  own  private  splendor,  which, 
of  course,  must  be  invented  from  intelligence  for 
oneself. 

There  will  be  no  magic  found  away  from  life.  It 
is  what  you  do  with  the  street-corner  in  your  brain 
that  shall  determine  your  gift.  It  will  not  be  found 
in  the  wilderness,  and  in  one's  toying  with  the  magic 
of  existence  is  the  one  gift  for  the  management  of 
experience. 

I  hope  one  day,  when  life  as  an  "idea"  permits, 
and  that  I  have  figured  will  be  somewhere  around 
my  ninetieth  year,  to  take  up  books  that  absorb  the 
brains  of  the  intelligent.  When  I  read  a  book,  it 
is  because  it  will  somehow  expose  to  me  the  magic 
of  existence.  My  fairy  tales  of  late  have  been 
"Wuthering  Heights,"  and  the  work  of  the  Brothers 
James,  Will  and  Henry.  I  am  not  so  sure  but 
that  I  like  William  best,  and  I  assure  you  that  is 

9 


CONCERNING  FAIRY  TALES  AND  ME 

saying  a  great  deal,  but  it  is  only  because  I  think 
William  is  more  like  life  as  idea. 

I  shall  hope  when  it  comes  time  to  sit  in  a  garden 
and  fold  one's  hands  gently,  listening  to  the  birds 
all  over  again,  watching  the  blossoms  swinging  with 
a  still  acuter  eye,  to  take  up  the  books  of  Grimm 
and  Andersen,  for  I  have  a  feeling  they  will  be  the 
books  that  will  best  corroborate  my  comprehension 
of  life  as  an  idea.  I  think  it  will  be  the  best  time 
to  read  them  then,  to  go  out  with  a  memory  soft 
ened  by  the  warm  hues  and  touches  of  legend  that 
rise  out  of  the  air  surrounding  life  itself. 

There  will  be  a  richer  comprehension  of  "once 
upon  a  time  there  was  a  princess" — who  wore  a 
great  many  jewelled  rings  on  her  fingers  and  whose 
eyes  were  like  deep  pools  in  the  farthest  fields  of 
the  sky — for  that  will  be  the  lady  who  let  me  love 
in  the  ways  I  was  made  to  forget;  the  lady  whose 
hands  I  have  touched  as  gently  as  possible  and  from 
whom  I  have  exacted  no  wish  save  that  I  might 
always  love  someone  or  something  that  was  so  like 
herself  as  to  make  me  think  it  was  no  other  than 
herself.  (It  is  because  I  love  the  idea  of  life  better 
than  anything  else  that  I  believe  most  of  all  in  the 
magic  of  existence,  and  in  spite  of  much  terrifying 
and  disillusioning  experience  of  late,  I  believe.] 


10 


PART  ONE 


THE  RED  MAN 

IT  is  significant  that  all  races,  and  primitive  peo 
ples  especially,  exhibit  the  wish  somehow  to  inscribe 
their  racial  autograph  before  they  depart.  It  is  our 
redman  who  permits  us  to  witness  the  signing  of  his 
autograph  with  the  beautiful  gesture  of  his  body  in 
the  form  of  the  symbolic  dance  which  he  and  his 
forefathers  have  practiced  through  the  centuries, 
making  the  name  America  something  to  be  remem 
bered  among  the  great  names  of  the  world  and  of 
time.  It  is  the  redman  who  has  written  down  our 
earliest  known  history,  and  it  is  of  his  symbolic  and 
esthetic  endeavors  that  we  should  be  most  reason 
ably  proud.  He  is  the  one  man  who  has  shown  us 
the  significance  of  the  poetic  aspects  of  our  original 
land.  Without  him  we  should  still  be  unrepresented 
in  the  cultural  development  of  the  world.  The  wide 
discrepancies  between  our  earliest  history  and  our 
present  make  it  an  imperative  issue  for  everyone 
loving  the  name  America  to  cherish  him  while  he 
remains  among  us  as  the  only  esthetic  representative 
of  our  great  country  up  to  the  present  hour.  He  has 
indicated  for  all  time  the  symbolic  splendor  of  our 
plains,  canyons,  mountains,  lakes,  mesas  and  ravines, 
our  forests  and  our  native  skies,  with  their  animal 

13 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

inhabitants,  the  buffalo,  the  deer,  the  eagle  and  the 
various  other  living  presences  in  their  midst.  He 
has  learned  throughout  the  centuries  the  nature  of 
our  soil  and  has  symbolized  for  his  own  religious 
and  esthetic  satisfaction  all  the  various  forms  that 
have  become  benefactors  to  him. 

Americans  of  this  time  and  of  time  to  come  shall 
know  little  or  nothing  of  their  spacious  land  until 
they  have  sought  some  degree  of  intimacy  with  our 
first  artistic  relative.  The  redman  is  the  one  truly 
indigenous  religionist  and  esthete  of  America.  He 
knows  every  form  of  animal  and  vegetable  life  ad 
hering  to  our  earth,  and  has  made  for  himself  a 
series  of  striking  pageantries  in  the  form  of  stirring 
dances  to  celebrate  them,  and  his  relation  to  them. 
Throughout  the  various  dances  of  the  Pueblos  of  the 
Rio  Grande  those  of  San  Felipe,  Santo  Domingo, 
San  Ildefonso,  Taos,  Tesuque,  and  all  the  other 
tribes  of  the  west  and  the  southwest,  the  same  uni 
fied  sense  of  beauty  prevails,  and  in  some  of  the 
dances  to  a  most  remarkable  degree.  For  instance, 
in  a  large  pueblo  like  Santo  Domingo,  you  have  the 
dance  composed  of  nearly  three  hundred  people, 
two  hundred  of  whom  form  the  dance  contingent,  the 
other  third  a  chorus,  probably  the  largest  singing 
chorus  in  the  entire  redman  population  of  America. 
In  a  small  pueblo  like  Tesuque,  the  theme  is  beauti 
fully  represented  by  from  three  to  a  dozen  indi 
viduals,  all  of  them  excellent  performers  in  various 
ways.  The  same  quality  and  the  same  character, 

14 


THE  RED  MAN 

the  same  sense  of  beauty,  prevails  in  all  of  them. 
It  is  the  little  pueblo  of  Tesuque  which  has  just 
finished  its  series  of  Christmas  dances — a  four-day 
festival  celebrating  with  all  but  impeccable  mastery 
the  various  identities  which  have  meant  so  much  to 
them  both  physically  and  spiritually — that  I  would 
here  cite  as  an  example.  It  is  well  known  that  once 
gesture  is  organized,  it  requires  but  a  handful  of 
people  to  represent  multitude ;  and  this  lonely  hand 
ful  of  redmen  in  the  pueblo  of  Tesuque,  numbering 
at  most  but  seventy-five  or  eighty  individuals,  less 
ened,  as  is  the  case  with  all  the  pueblos  of  the  coun 
try  to  a  tragical  degree  by  the  recent  invasions  of 
the  influenza  epidemic,  showed  the  interested  ob 
server,  in  groups  of  five  or  a  dozen  dancers  and 
soloists  including  drummers,  through  the  incompar 
able  pageantry  of  the  buffalo,  the  eagle,  the  snow 
bird,  and  other  varying  types  of  small  dances,  the 
mastery  of  the  redman  in  the  art  of  gesture,  the 
art  of  symbolized  pantomimic  expression.  It  is 
the  buffalo,  the  eagle,  and  the  deer  dances  that 
show  you  their  essential  greatness  as  artists.  You 
find  a  species  of  rhythm  so  perfected  in  its  relation 
to  racial  interpretation  as  hardly  to  admit  of  wit 
nessing  ever  again  the  copied  varieties  of  dancing 
such  as  we  whites  of  the  present  hour  are  familiar 
with.  It  is  nothing  short  of  captivating  artistry  of 
first  excellence,  and  we  are  familiar  with  nothing 
that  equals  it  outside  the  Negro  syncopation  which 

15 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

we  now  know  so  well,  and  from  which  we  have  bor 
rowed  all  we  have  of  native  expression. 

If  we  had  the  redman  sense  of  time  in  our  system, 
we  would  be  better  able  to  express  ourselves.  We 
are  notoriously  unorganized  in  esthetic  conception, 
and  what  we  appreciate  most  is  merely  the  athletic 
phase  of  bodily  expression,  which  is  of  course  at 
tractive  enough,  but  is  not  in  itself  a  formal  mode 
of  expression.  The  redman  would  teach  us  to  be 
ourselves  in  a  still  greater  degree,  as  his  forefathers 
have  taught  him  to  be  himself  down  the  centuries, 
despite  every  obstacle.  It  is  now  as  the  last  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  his  racial  expression  that  we  as  his 
host  and  guardian  are  pleasing  ourselves  to  figure. 
It  is  as  inhospitable  host  we  are  quietly  urging  de 
nunciation  of  his  pagan  ceremonials.  It  is  an  inhos 
pitable  host  that  we  are,  and  it  is  amazing  enough, 
our  wanting  to  suppress  him.  You  will  travel  over 
many  continents  to  find  a  more  beautifully  synthe 
sized  artistry  than  our  redman  offers.  In  times  of 
peace  we  go  about  the  world  seeking  out  every 
species  of  life  foreign  to  ourselves  for  our  own 
esthetic  or  intellectual  diversion,  and  yet  we  neglect 
on  our  very  doorstep  the  perhaps  most  remarkable 
realization  of  beauty  that  can  be  found  anywhere. 
It  is  of  a  perfect  piece  with  the  great  artistry  of 
all  time.  We  have  to  go  for  what  we  know  of 
these  types  of  expression  to  books  and  to  fragments 
of  stone,  to  monuments  and  to  the  preserved  bits  of 
pottery  we  now  may  see  under  glass  mostly,  while 

16 


THE  RED  MAN 

there  is  the  living  remnant  of  a  culture  so  fine  in 
its  appreciation  of  the  beauty  of  things,  under  our 
own  home  eye,  so  near  that  we  can  not  even  see  it. 
A  glimpse  of  the  buffalo  dance  alone  will  furnish 
proof  sufficient  to  you  of  the  sense  of  symbolic  sig 
nificances  in  the  redman  that  is  unsurpassed.  The 
redman  is  a  genius  in  his  gift  of  masquerade  alone. 
He  is  a  genius  in  detail,  and  in  ensemble,  and  the 
producer  of  today  might  learn  far  more  from  him 
than  he  can  be  aware  of  except  by  visiting  his  unique 
performances.  The  redman's  notion  of  the  theatric 
does  not  depend  upon  artificial  appliances.  He  re 
lies  entirely  upon  the  sun  with  its  so  clear  light  of 
the  west  and  southwest  to  do  his  profiling  and  sil 
houetting  for  him,  and  he  knows  the  sun  will  co 
operate  with  every  one  of  his  intentions.  He  allows 
for  the  sense  of  mass  and  of  detail  with  proper  pro 
portion,  allows  also  for  the  interval  of  escape  in 
mood,  crediting  the  value  of  the  pause  with  the  abil 
ity  to  do  its  prescribed  work  for  the  eye  and  ear 
perfectly,  and  when  he  is  finished  he  retires  from 
the  scene  carefully  to  the  beating  of  the  drums,  leav 
ing  the  emotion  to  round  itself  out  gradually  until 
he  disappears,  and  silence  completes  the  picture  for 
the  eye  and  the  brain.  His  staging  is  of  the  sim 
plest,  and  therefore,  the  most  natural.  Since  he  is 
sure  of  his  rhythms,  in  every  other  dancer  as  well 
as  himself,  he  is  certain  of  his  ensemble,  and  is  like 
wise  sure  there  will  be  no  dead  spots  either  in  the 
scenario  or  in  the  presentation.  His  production  is 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

not  a  show  for  the  amusement  of  the  onlooker;  it 
is  a  pageant  for  the  edification  of  his  own  soul. 
Each  man  is  therefore  concerned  with  the  staging  of 
the  idea,  because  it  is  his  own  spiritual  drama  in  a 
state  of  enaction,  and  each  is  in  his  own  way  man 
ager  of  the  scene,  and  of  the  duos,  trios,  and  en 
sembles,  or  whatever  form  the  dances  may  require. 
It  is  therefore  of  a  piece  with  his  conception  of 
nature  and  the  struggle  for  realism  is  not  necessary, 
since  he  is  at  all  times  the  natural  actor,  the  natural 
expresser  of  the  indications  and  suggestions  derived 
from  the  great  theme  of  nature  which  occupies  his 
mind,  and  body,  and  soul.  His  acting  is  invented 
by  himself  for  purposes  of  his  own,  and  it  is  nature 
that  gives  him  the  sign  and  symbol  for  the  expres 
sion  of  life  as  a  synthesis.  Hs  is  a  genius  in  plastic 
expression,  and  every  movement  of  his  is  sure  to 
register  in  the  unity  of  the  theme,  because  he  him 
self  is  a  powerful  unit  of  the  group  in  which  he  may 
be  performing.  He  is  esthetically  a  responsible  fac 
tor,  since  it  concerns  him  as  part  of  the  great  idea. 
He  is  leading  soloist  and  auxiliary  in  one.  He  is 
the  significant  instrument  in  the  orchestration  of  the 
theme  at  hand,  and  knows  his  body  will  respond  to 
every  requirement  of  phrasing.  You  will  find  the 
infants,  of  two  and  three  years  of  age  even,  respond 
ing  in  terms  of  play  to  the  exacting  rhythms  of  the 
dance,  just  as  with  orientals  it  was  the  children  often 
who  wove  the  loveliest  patterns  in  their  rugs. 

In  the  instance  of  the  buffalo  dance  of  the  Tesuque 
18 


THE  RED  MAN 

Indians,  contrary  to  what  might  be  expected  or 
would  popularly  be  conceived,  there  is  not  riotry 
of  color,  but  the  costumes  are  toned  rather  in  the 
sombre  hues  of  the  animal  in  question,  and  after 
the  tone  of  the  dark  flanks  of  the  mountains  crested 
and  avalanched  with  snows,  looking  more  like  buf 
faloes  buried  knee  deep  in  white  drifts  than  any 
thing  else  one  may  think  of.  They  bring  you  the 
sense  of  the  power  of  the  buffalo  personality,  the 
formidable  beast  that  once  stampeded  the  prairies 
around  them,  solemnized  with  austere  gesturing,  en 
veloping  him  with  stateliness,  and  the  silence  of  the 
winter  that  surrounds  themselves.  Three  men,  two 
of  them  impersonating  the  buffalo,  the  third  with 
bow  and  arrow  in  hand,  doubtless  the  hunter,  ajid 
two  women  representing  the  mother  buffalo,  furnish 
the  ensemble.  Aside  from  an  occasional  note  of 
red  in  girdles  and  minor  trappings,  with  a  soften 
ing  touch  of  green  in  the  pine  branches  in  their  hands, 
the  adjustment  of  hue  is  essentially  one  of  the  black 
and  white,  one  of  the  most  difficult  harmonies  in 
esthetic  scales  the  painter  encounters  in  the  making 
of  a  picture,  the  most  difficult  of  all  probably,  by 
reason  of  its  limited  range  and  the  economic  sever 
ity  of  color.  It  calls  for  nothing  short  of  the  fin 
est  perception  of  nuance,  and  it  is  the  redman  of 
America  who  knows  with  an  almost  flawless  eye  the 
natural  harmonies  of  the  life  that  surrounds  him.* 
He  has  for  so  long  decorated  his  body  with  the  hues 
of  the  earth  that  he  has  grown  to  be  a  part  of  them. 

19 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

He  is  a  living  embodiment  in  color  of  various  tonal 
characteristics  of  the  landscape  around  him.  He 
knows  the  harmonic  value  of  a  bark  or  a  hide,  or 
a  bit  of  broken  earth,  and  of  the  natural  unpolluted 
coloring  to  be  drawn  out  of  various  types  of  vege 
table  matter  at  his  disposal.  Even  if  he  resorts  to 
our  present-day  store  ribbons  and  cheap  trinkets  for 
accessories,  he  does  it  with  a  view  to  creating  the 
appearance  of  racial  ensemble.  He  is  one  of  the 
essential  decorators  of  the  world.  A  look  at  the 
totem  poles  and  the  prayer  robes  of  the  Indians  of 
Alaska  will  convince  you  of  that. 

In  the  buffalo  dance,  then,  you  perceive  the  red- 
man's  fine  knowledge  of  color  relations,  of  the  har 
monizing  of  buffalo  skins,  of  white  buckskins  painted 
with  most  expressively  simple  designs  symbolizing 
the  various  earth  identities,  and  the  accompanying 
ornamentation  of  strings  of  shells  and  other  odd  bits 
having  a  black  or  a  grey  and  white  lustre.  You  get 
an  adjusted  relation  of  white  which  traverses  the 
complete  scale  of  color  possibility  in  monochrome. 
The  two  men  representing  the  buffalo,  with  buf 
falo  heads  covering  their  heads  and  faces  from  view, 
down  to  their  breasts,  their  bodies  to  the  waist 
painted  black,  no  sign  of  pencillings  visible  to  relieve 
the  austerity  of  intention,  legs  painted  black  and 
white,  with  cuffs  of  skunk's  fur  round  the  ankles  to 
represent  the  death  mask  symbol,  relieving  the  edges 
of  the  buckskin  moccasins — in  all  this  you  have  the 
notes  that  are  necessary  for  the  color  balance  of  the 

20 


THE  RED  MAN 

idea  of  solemnity  presented  to  the  eye.  You  find 
even  the  white  starlike  splashes  here  and  there  on 
backs,  breasts  and  arms  coinciding  splendidly  with 
the  flecks  of  eagles-down  that  quiver  in  the  wind 
down  their  black  bodies,  and  the  long  black  hair  of 
the  accompanying  hunter,  as  flecks  of  foam  would 
rise  from  waterfalls  of  dark  mountain  streams;  and 
the  feathers  that  float  from  the  tips  of  the  buffalo 
horns  seem  like  young  eaglets  ready  to  leave  the 
eyry,  to  swim  for  the  first  time  the  far  fields  of  air 
above  and  below  them,  to  traverse  with  skill  the 
sunlit  spaces  their  eyes  have  opened  to  with  a  fierce 
amazement.  Even  the  clouds  of  frozen  breath 
darting  from  the  lips  of  the  dancers  served  as  an 
essential  phase  of  the  symbolic  decoration,  and  the 
girdles  of  tiny  conchlike  shells  rattling  round  their 
agile  thighs  made  a  music  you  were  glad  to  hear. 
The  sunshine  fell  from  them,  too,  in  scales  of  light, 
danced  around  the  spaces  enveloping  them  along 
with  the  flecks  of  eagle-down  that  floated  away  from 
their  bodies  with  the  vigors  of  the  dance,  floating 
away  from  their  dark  warm  bodies,  and  their  jet- 
blue  hair.  It  is  the  incomparable  understanding  of 
their  own  inventive  rhythms  that  inspire  and  im 
press  you  as  spectator.  It  is  the  swift  comprehen 
sion  of  change  in  rhythm  given  them  by  the  drum 
mers,  the  speedy  response  of  their  so  living  pulsat 
ing  bodies,  the  irresistible  rapport  with  the  varying 
themes,  that  thrills  and  invites  you  to  remain  close 
to  the  picture.  They  know,  as  per  feet  artists  would 

21 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

know,  the  essential  value  of  the  materials  at  their 
disposal,  and  the  eye  for  harmonic  relationships  is 
as  keen  as  the  impeccable  gift  for  rhythm  which  is 
theirs.  The  note  of  skill  was  again  accentuated 
when,  at  the  close  of  the  season's  ensemble  with  a 
repetition  of  the  beautiful  eagle  dance,  there  ap 
peared  two  grotesqueries  in  the  form  of  charming 
devil  spirits  in  the  hues  of  animals  also,  again  in 
startling  arrangements  of  black  and  white,  with  the 
single  hint  of  color  in  the  red  lips  of  the  masks  that 
covered  their  heads  completely  from  view,  and  from 
which  long  tails  of  white  horsehair  fell  down  their 
grey  white  backs — completing  the  feeling  once  again 
of  stout  animal  spirits  roaming  through  dark  for 
ests  in  search  of  sad  faces,  or,  it  may  even  be,  of 
evil  doers. 

All  these  dances  form  the  single  spectacle  surviv 
ing  from  a  great  race  that  no  American  can  afford 
actually  to  miss,  and  certainly  not  to  ignore.  It  is 
easy  to  conceive  with  what  furore  of  amazement 
these  spectacles  would  be  received  if  they  were 
brought  for  a  single  performance  to  our  metropoli 
tan  stage.  But  they  will  never  be  seen  away  from 
the  soil  on  which  they  have  been  conceived  and 
perpetuated.  It  is  with  a  simple  cordiality  the  red- 
man  permits  you  to  witness  the  esthetic  survivals 
of  his  great  race.  It  is  the  artist  and  the  poet  for 
whom  they  seem  to  be  almost  especially  created, 
since  these  are  probably  nearest  to  understanding 
them  from  the  point  of  view  of  finely  organized 

22 


THE  RED  MAN 

expression;  for  it  is  by  the  artist  and  the  poet  of 
the  first  order  that  they  have  been  invented  and 
perfected.  We  as  Americans  of  today  would  profit 
by  assisting  as  much  as  possible  in  the  continuance 
of  these  beautiful  spectacles,  rather  than  to  assist 
in  the  calm  dismissal  and  destruction  of  them.  It 
is  the  gesture  of  a  slowly  but  surely  passing  race 
which  they  themselves  can  not  live  without;  just 
as  we,  if  we  but  knew  the  ineffable  beauty  of  them, 
would  want  at  least  to  avail  ourselves  of  a  feast 
for  the  eye  which  no  other  country  in  existence  can 
offer  us,  and  which  any  other  nation  in  the  world 
would  be  only  too  proud  to  cherish  and  foster. 

We  are  not,  I  think,  more  than  vaguely  conscious 
of  what  we  possess  in  these  redman  festivities,  by 
way  of  esthetic  prize.  It  is  with  pain  that  one  hears 
rumors  of  official  disapproval  of  these  rare  and  in 
valuable  ceremonials.  Those  familiar  with  human 
psychology  understand  perfectly  that  the  one  nec 
essary  element  for  individual  growth  is  freedom 
to  act  according  to  personal  needs.  Once  an  oppo 
sition  of  any  sort  is  interposed,  you  get  a  blocked 
aspect  of  evolution,  you  get  a  withered  branch,  and 
it  may  even  be  a  dead  root.  All  sorts  of  com 
plexes  and  complexities  occur.  You  get  deformity, 
if  not  complete  helplessness  and  annihilation.  I  can 
not  imagine  what  would  happen  to  the  redman  if 
his  one  racial  gesture  were  denied  him,  if  he  were 
forbidden  to  perform  his  symbolic  dances  from  sea 
son  to  season.  It  is  a  survival  that  is  as  spiritually 

23 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

imperative  to  him  as  it  is  physically  and  emotion 
ally  necessary.  I  can  see  a  whole  flood  of  exquisite 
inhibitions  heaped  up  for  burial  and  dry  rot  within 
the  caverns  and  the  interstices  of  his  soul.  He  is 
a  rapidly  disappearing  splendor,  despite  the  possible 
encouragement  of  statistics.  He  needs  the  dance 
to  make  his  body  live  out  its  natural  existence,  pre 
cisely  as  he  needs  the  air  for  his  lungs  and  blood 
for  his  veins.  He  needs  to  dance  as  we  need  to 
laugh  to  save  ourselves  from  fixed  stages  of  mor 
bidity  and  disintegration.  It  is  the  laughter  of  his 
body  that  he  insists  upon,  as  well  as  depends  upon. 
A  redman  deprived  of  his  racial  gesture  is  unthink 
able.  You  would  have  him  soon  the  bleached  car 
cass  in  the  desert  out  of  which  death  moans,  and 
from  which  the  lizard  crawls.  It  would  be  in  the 
nature  of  direct  race  suicide.  He  needs  protection 
therefore  rather  than  disapproval.  It  is  as  if  you 
clipped  the  wing  of  the  eagle,  and  then  asked  him 
to  soar  to  the  sun,  to  cut  a  curve  on  the  sky  with  the 
instrument  dislodged;  or  as  if  you  asked  the  deer  to 
roam  the  wood  with  its  cloven  hoofs  removed. 
You  can  not  cut  the  main  artery  of  the  body  and 
expect  it  to  continue  functioning.  Depriving  the 
redman  of  his  one  enviable  gesture  would  be  cutting 
the  artery  of  racial  instinct,  emptying  the  beautiful 
chamber  of  his  soul  of  its  enduring  consciousness. 
The  window  would  be  opened  and  the  bird  flown  to 
a  dead  sky.  It  is  simply  unthinkable.  The  redman 
is  essentially  a  thankful  and  a  religious  being.  He 

24 


THE  RED  MAN 

needs  to  celebrate  the  gifts  his  heaven  pours  upon 
him.  Without  them  he  would  in  short  perish,  and 
perish  rapidly,  having  no  breath  to  breathe,  and  no 
further  need  for  survival.  He  is  already  in  proc 
ess  of  disappearance  from  our  midst,  with  the  at 
tempts  toward  assimilation. 

Inasmuch  as  we  have  the  evidence  of  a  fine  aris 
tocracy  among  us  still,  it  would  seem  as  if  it  be 
hooved  us  as  a  respectable  host  to  let  the  redman 
guest  entertain  himself  as  he  will,  as  he  sublimely 
does,  since  as  guardians  of  such  exceptional  charges 
we  can  not  seem  to  entertain  them.  There  is  no 
logical  reason  why  they  should  accept  an  inferior 
hospitality,  other  than  with  the  idea  of  not  inflicting 
themselves  upon  a  strange  host  more  than  is  neces 
sary.  The  redman  in  the  aggregate  is  an  exam 
ple  of  the  peaceable  and  unobtrusive  citizen;  we 
would  not  presume  to  interfere  with  the  play  of  chil 
dren  in  the  sunlight.  They  are  among  the  beau 
tiful  children  of  the  world  in  their  harmlessness. 
They  are  among  the  aristocracy  of  the  world  in  the 
matters  of  ethics,  morals,  and  etiquette.  We  for 
get  they  are  vastly  older,  and  in  symbolic  ways  in 
finitely  more  experienced  than  ourselves.  They  do 
not  share  in  tailor-made  customs.  They  do  not  need 
imposed  culture,  which  is  essentially  inferior  to  their 
own.  Soon  we  shall  see  them  written  on  tablets  of 
stone,  along  with  the  Egyptians  and  the  others 
among  the  races  that  have  perished.  The  esthetics 
of  the  redman  have  been  too  particular  to  permit 

25 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

of  universal  understanding,  and  of  universal  adapta 
tion.  It  is  the  same  with  all  primitives,  who  in 
vent  regimes  and  modes  of  expression  for  them 
selves  according  to  their  own  specific  psychological 
needs.  We  encourage  every  other  sign  and  indi 
cation  of  beauty  toward  the  progress  of  perfection. 
Why  should  not  we  encourage  a  race  that  is  beau 
tiful  by  the  proof  of  centuries  to  remain  the  unof- 
fensive  guest  of  the  sun  and  the  moon  and  the  stars 
while  they  may?  As  the  infant  prodigy  among 
races,  there  is  much  that  we  could  inherit  from  these 
people  if  we  could  prove  ourselves  more  worthy  and 
less  egotistic. 

The  artist  and  the  poet  of  perception  come  for 
ward  with  heartiest  approval  and  it  is  the  supplica 
tion  of  the  poet  and  the  artist  which  the  redman 
needs  most  of  all.  Science  looks  upon  him  as  a 
phenomenon;  esthetics  looks  upon  him  as  a  giant  of 
masterful  expression  in  our  midst.  The  redman  is 
poet  and  artist  of  the  very  first  order  among  the 
geniuses  of  time.  We  have  nothing  more  native  at 
our  disposal  than  the  beautiful  creations  of  this 
people.  It  is  singular  enough  that  the  as  yet  remote 
black  man  contributes  the  only  native  representation 
of  rhythm  and  melody  we  possess.  As  an  intelligent 
race,  we  are  not  even  sure  we  want  to  welcome  him 
as  completely  as  we  might,  if  his  color  were  just 
a  shade  warmer,  a  shade  nearer  our  own.  We  have 
no  qualms  about  yellow  and  white  and  the  oriental 
intermediate  hues.  W"e  may  therefore  accept  the 

26 


THE  RED  MAN 

redman  without  any  of  the  prejudices  peculiar  to 
other  types  of  skin,  and  we  may  accept  his  contri 
bution  to  our  culture  as  a  most  significant  and  im 
portant  one.  We  haven't  even  begun  to  make  use 
of  the  beautiful  hints  in  music  alone  which  he  has 
given  to  us.  We  need,  and  abjectly  so  I  may  say, 
an  esthetic  concept  of  our  own.  Other  nations  of 
the  world  have  long  since  accepted  Congo  original 
ity.  The  world  has  yet  to  learn  of  the  originality 
of  the  redman,  and  we  who  have  him  as  our  guest, 
knowing  little  or  nothing  of  his  powers  and  the 
beauty  he  confers  on  us  by  his  remarkable  esthetic 
propensities,  should  be  the  first  to  welcome  and  to 
foster  him.  It  is  not  enough  to  admit  of  archaeo 
logical  curiosity.  We  need  to  admit,  and  speedily, 
the  rare  and  excellent  esthetics  in  our  midst,  a  part 
of  our  own  intimate  scene.  The  redman  is  a  spir 
itual  expresser  of  very  vital  issues.  If  his  pottery 
and  his  blankets  offer  the  majority  but  little,  his 
ceremonials  do  contribute  to  the  comparative  few 
who  can  perceive  a  spectacle  we  shall  not  see  the 
equal  of  in  history  again.  It  would  help  at  least 
a  little  toward  proving  to  the  world  around  us  that 
we  are  not  so  young  a  country  as  we  might  seem, 
nor  yet  as  diffident  as  our  national  attitude  would 
seem  to  indicate.  The  smile  alone  of  the  redman 
is  the  light  of  our  rivers,  plains,  canyons,  and  moun 
tains.  He  has  the  calm  of  all  our  native  earth.  It 
is  from  the  earth  all  things  arise.  It  is  our  geog 
raphy  that  makes  us  Americans  of  the  present,  chil- 

27 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

dren.  We  are  the  product  of  a  day.  The  redman 
is  the  product  of  withered  ages.  He  has  written 
and  is  still  writing  a  very  impressive  autograph  on 
the  waste  places  of  history.  It  would  seem  to  me 
to  be  a  sign  of  modernism  in  us  to  preserve  the  liv 
ing  esthetic  splendors  in  our  midst.  Every  other 
nation  has  preserved  its  inheritances.  We  need 
likewise  to  do  the  same.  It  is  not  enough  to  put 
the  redman  as  a  specimen  under  glass  along  with  the 
auk  and  the  dinosaur.  He  is  still  alive  and  longing 
to  live.  We  have  lost  the  buffalo  and  the  beaver 
and  we  are  losing  the  redman,  also,  and  all  these 
are  fine  symbols  of  our  own  native  richness  and  aus 
terity.  The  redman  will  perpetuate  himself  only 
by  the  survival  of  his  own  customs  for  he  will  never 
be  able  to  accept  customs  that  are  as  foreign  to  him 
as  ours  are  and  must  always  be;  he  will  never  be 
able  to  accept  a  culture  which  is  inferior  to  his  own. 
In  the  esthetic  sense  alone,  then,  we  have  the  red 
man  as  a  gift.  As  Americans  we  should  accept  the 
one  American  genius  we  possess,  with  genuine  alac 
rity.  We  have  upon  our  own  soil  something  to 
show  the  world  as  our  own,  while  it  lives.  To  re 
strict  the  redman  now  would  send  him  to  an  un- 
.  righteous  oblivion.  He  has  at  least  two  contributions 
to  confer,  a  very  aristocratic  notion  of  religion,  and 
a  superb  gift  for  stylistic  expression.  He  is  the 
living  artist  in  our  midst,  and  we  need  not  think  of 
him  as  merely  the  anthropological  variation  or  as 
an  archaeological  diversion  merely.  He  proves  the 

28 


THE  RED  MAN 

importance  of  synthetic  registration  in  peoples.  He 
has  created  his  system  for  himself,  from  substance 
on,  through  outline  down  to  every  convincing  de 
tail.  j_We  are  in  a  position  always  of  selecting  de-  \ 
tails  in  the  hope  of  constructing  something  usable 
for  ourselves.  It  is  the  superficial  approach.  We 
are  imitators  because  we  have  by  nature  or  force  of 
circumstance  to  follow,  and  improve  upon,  if  we 
can.  We  merely  "impose"  something.  We  can 
not  improve  upon  what  the  redman  offers  us  in  his 
own  way.  To  "impose"  something — that  is  the 
modern  culture.  The  interval  of  imposition  is  our 
imaginary  interval  of  creation.  The  primitives  cre 
ated  a  complete  cosmos  for  themselves,  an  entire 
principle.  I  want  merely,  then,  esthetic  recognition 
in  full  of  the  contribution  of  the  redman  as  artist, 
as  one  of  the  finest  artists  of  time;  the  poetic  red 
man  ceremonialist,  celebrant  of  the  universe  as  he 
sees  it,  and  master  among  masters  of  the  art  of 
symbolic  gesture.  It  is  pitiable  to  dismiss  him  from 
our  midst.  He  needs  rather  royal  invitation  to  re 
main  and  to  persist,  and  he  can  persist  only  by  ex 
pressing  himself  in  his  own  natural  and  distinguished 
way,  as  is  the  case  with  all  peoples,  and  all  indi 
viduals,  indeed.] 


29 


WHITMAN  AND  CEZANNE 

IT  is  interesting  to  observe  that  in  two  fields  of 
expression,  those  of  painting  and  poetry,  the  two 
most  notable  innovators,  Whitman  and  Cezanne 
bear  a  definite  relationship  in  point  of  similarity 
of  ideals  and  in  their  attitudes  toward  esthetic  prin 
ciples.  Both  of  these  men  were  so  true  to  their 
respective  ideals  that  they  are  worth  considering  at 
the  same  time  in  connection  with  each  other : 

CCezanne  with  his  desire  to  join  the  best  that  existed 
in  the  impressionistic  principle  with  the  classical  arts 
of  other  times,  or  as  he  called  it,  to  create  an  art 
like  the  Louvre  out  of  impressionism.  We  shall 

j  find  him  striving  always  toward  actualities,  toward 
the  realization  of  beauty  as  it  is  seen  to  exist  in  the 
real,  in  the  object  itself,  whether  it  be  mountain  or 
apple  or  human,  the  entire  series  of  living  things 
in  relation  to  one  another^ 

It  is  consistent  that  Cezanne,  like  all  pioneers, 
was  without  prescribed  means,  that  he  had  to  spend 
his  life  inventing  for  himself  those  terms  and  meth 
ods  which  would  best  express  his  feelings  about  na 
ture.  It  is  natural  that  he  admired  the  precision 
of  Bouguereau,  it  is  also  quite  natural  that  he  should 
have  worshipped  in  turn,  Delacroix,  Courbet,  and 
without  doubt,  the  mastery  of  Ingres,  and  it  is  in- 

30 


WHITMAN  AND  CEZANNE 

dicative  too  that  he  felt  the  frank  force  of  Manet. 
Qt  was  his  special  distinction  to  strive  toward  a  sim 
ple  presentation  of  simple  things,  to  want  to  paint 
"that  which  existed  between  himself  and  the  object," 
and  to  strive  to  solidify  the  impressionistic  concep 
tion  with  a  greater  realization  of  form  in  space,  the 
which  they  had  so  much  ignored.  That  he  achieved 
this  in  a  satisfying  manner  may  be  observed  in  the 
best  of  his  landscapes  and  still-lifes,  and  in  some  of 
the  figure  studies  also.  The  endeavor  to  eliminate* 
all  aspects  of  extraneous  conception  by  dismissing 
the  quality  of  literature,  of  poetry  and  romance  from 
painting,  was  the  exact  characteristic  which  made 
him  what  he  is  for  us  today,  the  pioneer  in  the  field 
of  modern  art.J  It  was  significant  enough  when  he 
once  said  to  Renoir,  that  it  took  him  twenty  years 
to  find  out  that  painting  was  not  sculpture.  Those 
earlier  and  heavy  impasto  studies  of  his  are  the  evi 
dence  of  this  worthy  deduction.  It  was  significant, 
too,  when  he  said  that  Gaugin  was  but  "a  flea  on 
his  back,"  and  that  "he  does  nothing  but  paint  Chi 
nese  images." 

The  phrase  that  brings  these  two  strikingly  orig 
inal  personages  in  art  together  is  the  one  of  Cezanne : 
"I  remain  the  primitive  of  the  way  I  have  discov 
ered";  and  that  of  Whitman,  which  comes  if  I  am 
not  mistaken  from  Democratic  Vistas,  though  it  may 
be  from  elsewhere  in  Whitman's  prose,  running 
chiefly:  "I  only  wish  to  indicate  the  way  for  the 
innumerable  poets  that  are  to  come  after  me,"  etc., 

31 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

and  "I  warn  you  this  is  not  a  book,  this  is  a  man." 
These  two  geniuses  are  both  of  one  piece  as  to  their 
esthetic  intention,  despite  the  great  gulf  that  lies 
between  their  concepts  of,  and  their  attitudes  toward 
life.  For  the  one,  life  was  a  something  to  stay 
close  to  always,  for  the  other,  it  was  something  to 
be  afraid  of  to  an  almost  abnormal  degree;  Whit 
man  and  his  door  never  closed,  Cezanne  and  his 
door  seldom  or  never  opened,  indeed,  were  heavily 
padlocked  against  the  intrusion  of  the  imaginary 
outsider.  These  are  the  geniuses  who  have  done 
most  for  these  two  arts  of  the  present  time,  it  is 
Whitman  and  Cezanne  who  have  clarified  the  sleep 
ing  eye  and  withheld  it  from  being  totally  blinded, 
from  the  onslaughts  of  jaded  tradition. 

LThere  were  in  Cezanne  the  requisite  gifts  for 
selection,  and  for  discarding  all  useless  encum 
brances,  there  was  in  him  the  great  desire  for  puri 
fication,  or  of  seeing  the  superb  fact  in  terms  of 
itself,  majestically;  and  if  not  always  serenely, 
serenity  was  nevertheless  his  passionate  longing. 
He  saw  what  there  was  for  him  in  those  old  and 
accepted  masters  who  meant  most  to  him,  and  he 
saw  also  what  there  was  for  him  in  that  newest  of 
old  masters,  which  was  also  in  its  way  the  assumed 
discovery  of  our  time,  he  saw  the  relativity  of 
Greco's  beautiful  art  to  the  art  of  his  own  making. 
He  saw  that  here  was  a  possible  and  applicable 
architectonic  suited  to  the  objects  of  his  newly  con 
ceived  principles,  he  felt  in  Greco  the  magnetic 

32 


WHITMAN  AND  CEZANNE 

tendency  of  one  thing  toward  another  in  nature, 
that  trees  and  hills  and  valleys  and  people  were  not 
something  sitting  still  for  his  special  delectation,  but 
that  they  were  constantly  aspiring  to  fruition,  either 
physical,  mental,  or  let  us  say,  spiritual,  even  when 
the  word  is  applied  to  the  so-termed  inanimate  ob 
jects.  He  felt  the  "palpitancy,"  the  breathing  of  all* 
things,  the  urge  outward  of  all  life  toward  the  light 
which  helps  it  create  and  recreate  itself.  He  felt' 
this  "movement"  in  and  about  things,  and  this  it  is 
that  gives  his  pictures  that  sensitive  life  quality  which 
lifts  them  beyond  the  aspect  of  picture-making  or 
even  mere  representation.  They  are  not  cold  stud 
ies  of  inanimate  things,  they  are  pulsing  realizations 
of  living  substances  striving  toward  each  other,  lend 
ing  each  other  their  individual  activities  until  his 
canvases  become,  as  one  might  name  them,  ensem 
bles  of  animation,  orchestrated  life.  We  shall,  I  * 
think,  find  this  is  what  Greco  did  for  Cezanne,  and 
it  is  Cezanne  who  was  among  the  first  of  moderns, 
if  not  the  first,  to  appreciate  that  particular  aspira- 
tional  quality  in  the  splendid  pictures  of  Greco. 
They  "move"  toward  their  design,  they  were  lifted 
by  the  quality  of  their  organization  into  spaces  in 
which  they  were  free  to  carry  on  the  fine  illusion  of 
life! 

Whitman  has  certainly  aspired  equally,  but  being 
more  things  in  one  than  Cezanne,  his  task  has  been 
in  some  ways  greater,  more  difficult,  and  may  we 
say  for  humanistic  reasons,  loftier.  Whitman's  in- 

33 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

clusiveness  was  at  one  and  the  same  time  his  virtue 
and  his  defect.  For  mystical  reasons,  it  was  im 
perative  for  him  to  include  all  things  in  himself,  and 
so  he  set  about  enumerating  all  those  elements  which 
were  in  him,  and  of  which  he  was  so  devoted  and 
affectionate  a  part.  That  he  could  leave  nothing 
out  was,  it  may  be  said,  his  strongest  esthetical  de 
fect,  for  it  is  by  esthetical  judgment  that  we  choose 
and  bring  together  those  elements  as  we  conceive 
it.  It  is  the  mark  of  good  taste  to  reject  that  which 
is  unessential,  and  the  "tact  of  omission,"  well  ex 
emplified  in  Cezanne,  has  been  found  excellently 
axiomatic.  So  that  it  is  the  tendency  in  Whitman 
to  catalogue  in  detail  the  entire  obvious  universe 
that  makes  many  of  his  pages  a  strain  on  the  mind 
as  well  as  on  the  senses,  and  the  eye  especially.  The 
absolute  enforcement  of  this  gift  of  omission  in 
painting  makes  it  easier  for  the  artist,  in  that  his 
mind  is  perforce  engrossed  with  the  idea  of  sim 
plification,  directness,  and  an  easy  relationship  of 
the  elements  selected  for  presentation  to  each  other. 
It  is  the  quality  of  "living-ness"  in  Cezanne  that 
sends  his  art  to  the  heights  of  universality,  which 
is  another  way  of  naming  the  classical  vision,  or 
the  masterly  conception,  and  brings  him  together 
with  Whitman  as  much  of  the  same  piece.  You  get 
all  this  in  all  the  great  masters  of  painting  and  lit 
erature,  Goethe,  Shakespeare,  Rubens,  and  the 
Greeks.  It  is  the  reaching  out  and  the  very  master 
ing  of  life  which  makes  all  art  great,  and  all  artists 

34 


WHITMAN  AND  CEZANNE 

into  geniuses.  It  is  the  specializing  on  ideas  which 
shuts  the  stream  of  its  flow.  I  have  felt  the  same 
gift  for  life  in  a  still-life  or  a  landscape  of  Cezanne's 
that  I  have  felt  in  any  of  Whitman's  best  pieces. 
The  element  in  common  with  these  two  exceptional 
creators  is  liberation.  They  have  done  more,  these 
modern  pioneers,  for  the  liberation  of  the  artist, 
and  for  the  "freeing"  of  painting  and  poetry  than 
any  other  men  of  modern  time.  Through  them, 
painting  and  poetry  have  become  literally  free,  and 
through  them  it  is  that  the  young  painters  and  poets 
have  sought  new  fields  for  self  deliverance  Disci- 
pleship  does  not  hold  out  long  with  the  truly  under 
standing.  Those  who  really  know  what  original 
ity  is  are  not  long  the  slave  of  the  power  of  imi 
tation:  it  is  the  gifted  assimilator  that  suffers  most 
under  the  spell  of  mastery.  Legitimate  influence  is 
a  quality  which  all  earnest  creators  learn  to  handle 
at  once.  Both  poetry  and  painting  are,  or  so  it 
seems  to  me,  revealing  well  the  gift  of  understand 
ing,  and  as  a  result  we  have  a  better  variety  of 
painting  and  of  poetry  than  at  the  first  outbreak  of 
this  so  called  modern  esthetic  epidemic. 

The  real  younger  creators  are  learning  the  dif 
ference  between  surface  and  depth,  between  exterior 
semblances,  and  the  underlying  substances.  Both 

hitman  and  Cezanne  stand  together  in  the  name 
of  one  common  purpose,  freedom  from  character 
istics  not  one's  own.  They  have  taught  the  creators 
of  this  time  to  know  what  classicism  really  is,  that 

35 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

it  is  the  outline  of  all  things  that  endure.  They 
have  both  shown  that  it  is  not  idiosyncrasy  alone 
which  creates  originality,  that  idiosyncrasy  is  but  the 
husk  of  personal  penetration,  that  it  is  in  no  way  the 
constituent  essential  for  genius.  For  genius  is  noth 
ing  but  the  name  for  higher  perception,  the  greater 
degree  of  understanding.  Cezanne's  fine  landscapes 
and  still-lifes,  and  Whitman's  majestic  line  with  its 
gripping  imagery  are  one  and  the  same  thing,  for  it 
reaches  the  same  height  in  the  mind.  They  walk 
together  out  of  a  vivid  past,  these  two  geniuses, 
opening  the  corridors  to  a  possibly  vivid  future  for 
the  artists  of  now,  and  to  come.  They  are  the  gate 
way  for  our  modern  esthetic  development,  the 
prophets  of  the  new  time.  They  are  most  of  all, 
the  primitives  of  the  way  they  have  begun,  they 
have  voiced  most  of  all  the  imperative  need  of  es 
sential  personalism,  of  direct  expression  out  of  direct 
experience,  with  an  eye  to  nothing  but  quality  and 
proportion  as  conceived  by  them.  Their  dogmas 
were  both  simple  in  the  extreme,  and  of  immense 
worth  to  us  in  their  respective  spheres.  We  may 
think  of  them  as  the  giants  of  the  beginning  of  the 
twentieth  century,  with  the  same  burning  desire  to 
enlarge  the  general  scope  of  vision,  and  the  finer 
capacity  for  individual  experience. 


ALBERT  P.  RYDER 

ALBERT  P.  RYDER  possessed  in  a  high  degree  that 
strict  passivity  of  mental  vision  which  calls  into  being 
the  elusive  yet  fixed  element  the  mystic  Blake  so 
ardently  refers  to  and  makes  a  principle  of,  that 
element  outside  the  mind's  jurisdiction.  LHis  work 
is  of  the  essence  of  poetry;  it  is  alien  to  the  realm 
of  esthetics  pure,  for  it  has  very  special  spiritual  his 
tories  to  relate!  His  landscapes  are  somewhat  akin 
to  those  of  Michel  and  of  Courbet.  They  suggest 
Michel's  wide  wastes  of  prodigal  sky  and  duneland 
with  their  winding  roads  that  have  no  end,  his  ever- 
shadowy  stretches  of  cloud  upon  ever-shadowy 
stretches  of  land  that  go  their  austere  way  to  the 
edges  of  some  vacant  sea.  They  suggest,  too,  those 
less  remote  but  perhaps  even  more  aloof  spaces  of 
solitude  which  were  ever  Courbet's  theme  in  his 
deeper  hours,  that  haunting  sense  of  subtle  habita 
tion,  that  acute  invasion  of  either  wind  or  soft  fleck 
of  light  or  bright  presence  in  a  breadth  of  shadow, 
as  if  a  breath  of  living  essences  always  somehow 
pervaded  those  mystic  woodland  or  still  lowland 
scenes.  But  highly  populate  as  these  pictures  of 
Courbet's  are  with  the  spirit  of  ever-passing  feet 
that  hover  and  hold  converse  in  the  remote  wood, 
the  remoter  plain,  they  never  quite  surrender  to  that 

37 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

ghostliness  which  possesses  the  pictures  of  our 
Ryder.  At  all  times  in  his  work  one  has  the  feeling 
of  there  having  lately  passed,  if  ever  so  fleetly, 
some  bodily  shape  seeking  a  solitude  of  its  own.  I 
recall  no  other  landscapes  impressed  with  a  more 
terrific  austerity  save  Greco's  incredible  "Toledo," 
to  my  thinking  a  finality  in  landscape  creation. 

There  is  quietude,  solace,  if  you  will,  in  Michel, 
in  Courbet,  but  there  isfnever  a  rest  for  the  eye  or 
the  mind  or  the  spirit  in  those  most  awesome  of 
pictures  which  Ryder  has  presented  to  us,  few  as 
they  are ;  for  the  Ryder  legend  is  akin  to  the  legend 
of  GiorgioneJ  u  here  is  always  splendor  in  them 
but  it  is  the  splendor  of  the  dream  given  over  to  a 
genius  more  powerful  than  the  vision  which  has  con 
jured  them  forthj  It  is  distinctly  a  land  of  Luthany 
in  which  they  have  their  being;  he  has  inscribed  for 
us  that  utter  homelessness  of  the  spirit  in  the  far 
tracts  that  exist  in  the  realm  of  the  imagination; 
there  is  suffering  in  his  pictures,  that  fainting  of  the 
spirit,  that  breathlessness  which  overtakes  the  soul 
in  search  of  the  consummation  of  beauty. 

Ryder  is  akin  to  Coleridge,  too,  for  there  is  a  di 
rect  visional  analogy  between  "The  Flying  Dutch 
man"  and  the  excessively  pictorial  stanzas  of  "The 
Ancient  Mariner."  Ryder  has  typified  himself  in 
this  excellent  portrayal  of  sea  disaster,  this  pro 
found  spectacle  of  the  soul's  despair  in  conflict  with 
wind  and  wave.  Could  any  picture  contain  more  of 
that  remoteness  of  the  world  of  our  real  heart  as 

38 


ALBERT  P.  RYDER 

well  as  our  real  eye,  the  artist's  eye  which  visits  that 
world  in  no  official  sense  but  only  as  a  guest  or  a 
courtly  spectator?  [No  artist,  I  ought  to  say,  was 
ever  more  master  of  his  ideas  and  less  master  of  the 
medium  of  painting  than  Ryder;  there  is  in  some  of 
his  finest  canvases  a  most  pitiable  display  of  igno 
rance  which  will  undoubtedly  shorten  their  life  by 
many  years] 

I  still  retain  the  vivid  impression  that  afflicted  me 
when  I  saw  my  first  Ryder,  a  marine  of  rarest  gran 
deur  and  sublimity,  incredibly  small  in  size,  incred 
ibly  large  in  its  emotion — just  a  sky  and  a  single 
vessel  in  sail  across  a  conquering  sea.  [Ryder  is, 
I  think,  the  special  messenger  of  the  sea's  beauty, 
the  confidant  of  its  majesties,  its  hauteurs,  its  su 
premacies;  for  he  was  born  within  range  of  the  sea 
and  all  its  legends  have  hovered  with  him  contin- 
uallyj  Since  that  time  I  have  seen  a  number  of 
other  pictures  either  in  the  artist's  possession  or  else 
where:  "Death  on  the  Racetrack,"  "Pegasus,"  can 
vases  from  The  Tempest  and  Macbeth  in  that 
strange  little  world  of  chaos  that  was  his  home,  his 
hermitage,  so  distraught  with  debris  of  the  world 
for  which  he  could  seem  to  find  no  other  place;  I 
have  spent  some  of  the  rare  and  lovelier  moments 
of  my  experience  with  this  gentlest  and  sweetest  of 
other-world  citizens ;  I  have  felt  with  ever-living  de 
light  the  excessive  loveliness  of  his  glance  and  of  his 
smile  and  heard  that  music  of  some  far-away  world 
which  was  his  laughter;  I  have  known  that  wisdom 

39 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

which  is  once  and  for  all  wisdom  for  the  artist,  that 
confidence  and  trust  that  for  the  real  artist  there  is 
but  one  agency  for  the  expression  of  self  in  terms 
of  beauty,  the  eye  of  the  imagination,  that  mystical 
third  somewhere  in  the  mind  which  transposes  all 

•  that   is   legitimate   to    expression.   Clo    Ryder    the 
imagination  was  the  man;  he  was  a  poet  painter, 

*  living  ever  outside  the  realm  of  theory.] 

He  was  fond  of  Corot,  and  at  moments  I  have 
thought  of  him  as  the  heir  and  successor  to  some  of 
Corot's  haunting  graces;  but  there  was  all  the  dif 
ference  between  them  that  there  is  between  lyric 
pure  and  tragic  pure.  Ryder  has  for  once  tran 
scribed  all  outer  semblances  by  means  of  a  personal 
ity  unrelated  to  anything  other  than  itself,  an  imag 
ination  belonging  strictly  to  our  soil  and  specifically 
to  our  Eastern  geography.  In  his  autographic  qual 
ity  he  is  certainly  our  finest  genius,  the  most  crea 
tive,  the  most  racial.  For  our  genius,  at  its  best, 
is  the  genius  of  the  evasive;  we  are  born  lovers  of 
the  secret  element,  the  mystery  in  things. 

How  many  of  our  American  painters  have  given 
real  attention  to  Ryder?  {j  find  him  so  much  the 
legend  among  professional  artists,  this  master  of 
arabesque,  this  first  and  foremost  of  our  designers, 
this  real  creator  of  pattern,  this  first  of  all  creators 
of  tragic  landscape,  whose  pictures  are  sacred  to 
those  that  revere  distinction  and  power  in  art.  He 
had  in  him  that  finer  kind  of  reverence  for  the  ele 
ment  of  beauty  which  finds  all  things  somehow 

40 


ALBERT  P.  RYDER 

lovely.  He  understood  best  of  all  the  meaning  of 
the  grandiose,  of  everything  that  is  powerful;  none 
of  his  associates  in  point  of  time  rose  to  just  that 
sublimated  experience;  not  Fuller,  not  Martin,  not 
Blakelock,  though  each  of  these  was  touched  to  a 
special  expression.  They  are  more  derivative  than 
Ryder,  more  the  children  of  BarbizonJ 

[Ryder  gave  us  first  and  last  an  incomparable  sense 
of  pattern  and  austerity  of  mood.  He  saw  with  an 
all  too  pitiless  and  pitiful  eye  the  element  of  help 
lessness  in  things,  the  complete  succumbing  of  things 
in  nature  to  those  elements  greater  than  they  that 
wield  a  fatal  power.  Ryder  was  the  last  of  the  ro 
mantics,  the  last  of  that  great  school  of  impressive 
artistry,  as  he  was  the  first  of  our  real  painters  and 
the  greatest  in  vision!3  He  was  a  still  companion 
of  Blake  in  that  realm  of  the  beyond,  the  first  citizen 
of  the  land  of  Luthany.  He  knew  the  fine  distinc 
tion  between  drama  and  tragedy,  the  tragedy  which 
nature  prevails  upon  the  sensitive  to  accept.  Qrle 
was  the  painter  poet  of  the  immanent  in  thingsTJ 


WINSLOW  HOMER 

»  IN  Winslow  Homer  we  have  yankeeism  of  the 
first  order,  turned  to  a  creditable  artistic  account. 
With  a  fierce  feeling  for  truth,  a  mania,  almost, 
for  actualities,  there  must  have  been  somewhere  in 
his  make-up  a  gentleness,  a  tenderness  and  refine 
ment  which  explain  his  fine  appreciation  of  the  genius 
of  the  place  he  had  in  mind  to  represent.  There  is 
/not  an  atom  of  legend  in  Homer,  it  is  always  and 
always  narrative  of  the  obvious  world.  There  is 
at  once  the  essential  dramatic  import  ruling  the 
scene.  With  him  it  is  nothing  but  dramatic  rela 
tionship,  the  actionary  tendency  of  the  facts  them 
selves,  in  nature.  You  are  held  by  him  constantly 
to  the  bold  and  naked  theme,  and  you  are  left  to 
wander  in  the  imagination  only  among  the  essentials 
of  simple  and  common  realism. 

Narrative  then,  first  and  last  with  Homer,  and 
the  only  creative  aspect  of  his  pictures  is  concealed 
in  the  technique.  The  only  touch  of  invention  in 
them  is  the  desire  to  improve  the  language  they 
speak.  Dramatic  always,  I  do  not  call  them  theat 
ric  excepting  in  the  case  of  one  picture  that  I  know, 
called  "Morro  Castle"  I  think,  now  in  the  Metro 
politan  Museum,  reminding  me  much  of  the  com 
monplace,  "Chateau  de  Chillon"  of  Courbet's, 

42 


WINSLOW  HOMER 

neither  of  these  pictures  being  of  any  value  in  the 
careers  of  their  authors.  But  once  you  sat  on  the 
rocks  of  Maine,  and  watched  the  climbing  of  the  surf 
up  the  morning  sky  after  a  heavy  storm  at  sea,  you 
realize  the  force  of  Homer's  gift  for  the  realities. 
His  pictures  are  yankee  in  their  indications,  as  a 
work  of  art  could  be,  flinty  and  unyielding,  resolute 
as  is  the  yankee  nature  itself,  or  rather  to  say,  the 
original  yankee,  which  was  pioneer  then  in  a  so 
rough  yet  resourceful  country.  It  is  the  quality  of 
Thoreau,  but  without  the  genius  of  Thoreau  for  the 
poetry  of  things. 

Homer's  pictures  give  you  nothing  but  the  bare 
fact  told  in  the  better  class  terms  of  illustration,  for 
he  was  illustrator,  first  of  all.  While  the  others 
were  trying  to  make  a  little  American  Barbizon  of 
their  own,  there  were  Homer,  Ryder,  Fuller,  Mar 
tin,  working  alone  for  such  vastly  opposite  ideas, 
and  yet,  of  these  men,  four  of  them  were  expressing 
such  highly  imaginative  ideas,  and  Homer  was  the 
unflinching  realist  among  them.  I  do  not  know  * 
where  Homer  started,  but  I  believe  it  was  the  sea 
at  Prout's  Neck  that  taught  him  most.  I  think  that 
William  Morris  Hunt  and  Washington  Allston  must 
have  seemed  like  infant  Michelangelos  then,  for 
there  is  still  about  them  a  sturdiness  which  we  see 
little  of  in  the  American  art  of  that  time,  or  even 
now  for  that  matter.  They  had  a  certain  massive 
substance,  proving  the  force  of  mind  and  personal 
ity  which  was  theirs,  and  while  these  men  were  prov- 

43 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

ing  the  abundance  and  warmth  of  themselves, 
Homer  was  the  frozen  one  among  them.  Nature 
was  nature  to  him,  and  that  alone  he  realized,  and 
yet  it  was  not  precisely  slavish  imitation  that  im 
pelled  him. 

There  was  in  him  a  very  creditable  sense  of  selec 
tion, — as  will  be  seen  especially  in  the  water  colours, 
so  original  with  him,  so  gifted  in  their  power  of 
treatment — one  of  the  few  great  masters  of  the 
medium  the  world  has  known.  He  knew  the  mean 
ing  of  wash  as  few  since  have  known  it,  he  knew 
that  it  has  scale  and  limitation  of  its  own,  and  for 
all  that,  infinite  suggestibility.  Not  Turner  or 
Whistler  have  excelled  him,  and  I  do  not  know  of 
anyone  who  has  equalled  him  in  understanding  of 
this  medium  outside  of  Dodge  Macknight  and  John 
Marin.  It  is  in  these  so  expressive  paintings  on 
paper  that  you  feel  the  real  esthetic  longing  as  well 
as  a  certain  contribution  in  Homer,  the  desire  to 
realize  himself  and  to  release  himself  from  too 
slavish  imitation  of  nature  and  the  too  rigid  con 
sideration  of  truth.  He  was  finer  in  technique  than 
perhaps  any  that  I  have  mentioned,  though  the  two 
modern  men  have  seconded  him  very  closely,  and  in 
point  of  vision  have,  I  am  certain,  surpassed  him. 
Homer  arrived  because  of  his  power  to  express  what 
he  wished  to  say,  though  his  reach  was  far  less  lofty 
than  theirs.  He  was  essentially  on  the  ground,  and 
wanted  to  paint  the  very  grip  of  his  own  feet  on  the 
rocks.  He  wanted  the  inevitability  put  down  in 

44 


WINSLOW  HOMER 

recognizable  form.  He  had  not  feeling  for  the  hint 
or  the  suggestion  until  he  came  to  the  water-color, 
which  is  of  course  most  essentially  that  sort  of  me 
dium.  He  knew  its  scope  and  its  limitations  and 
never  stepped  out  of  its  boundaries,  and  he  achieved 
a  fine  mastery  in  it.  His  imitators  will  never  ar 
rive  at  his  severity  because  they  are  not  flint  yan- 
kee.  They  have  not  the  hard  head  and  snappy 
tongue.  It  was  yankee  crabbedness  that  gave 
Homer  his  grip  on  the  idea  he  had  in  mind.  Flor 
ida  lent  a  softer  tone  to  what  Maine  rocks  could 
not  give  him.  He  is  American  from  skin  to  skele 
ton,  and  a  leader  among  yankee  as  well  as  Amer 
ican  geniuses.  He  probably  hated  as  much  as 
Thoreau,  and  in  his  steely  way  admired  as  much. 
It  was  fire  from  the  flintlock  in  them  both,  though 
nature  had  a  far  softer  and  loftier  persuasion  with 
the  Concord  philosopher  and  naturalist. 

Homer  remains  a  figure  in  our  American  culture 
through  his  feeling  for  reality.  He  has  learned 
through  slavery  to  detail  to  put  down  the  essential 
fact,  however  abundantly  or  however  sparsely.  He 
has  a  little  of  Courbet's  sense  of  the  real,  and  none 
whatever  of  his  sense  of  the  imaginative.  It  was 
enough  for  him  to  classicize  the  realistic  incident. 
He  impels  me  to  praise  through  his  yankee  insist-  * 
ence  upon  integrity.  Story  is  story  with  Homer  and 
he  leaves  legend  to  itself.  It  is  the  narrative  of 
the  Whittier  type,  homely,  genuine,  and  typical. 
He  never  stepped  outside  of  his  yankee  determina- 

45 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

tion.  Homer  has  sent  the  art  of  water  colour  paint 
ing  to  a  very  high  place  in  world  consideration. 
He  cannot  be  ignored  as  a  master  in  this  field.  His 
paintings  must  be  taken  as  they  are,  solid  renderings 
of  fact,  dramatically  considered.  He  offers  noth 
ing  else.  Once  you  have  seen  these  realistic  sea 
pictures,  you  may  want  to  remember  and  you  may 
want  to  forget,  but  they  call  for  consideration. 
They  are  true  in  their  living  appreciation  of  reality. 
He  knew  the  sea  like  the  old  salts  that  were  his 
neighbors,  and  from  accounts  he  was  as  full  of  the 
tang  of  the  sea  as  they.  He  was  a  foe  to  compro 
mise  and  a  despiser  of  imposition.  The  best  and 
most  impersonal  of  him  is  in  his  work,  for  he  never 
ventured  to  express  philosophies,  ethics,  or  morals 
in  terms  of  picture-painting.  That  is  to  his  credit 
*at  least.  He  was  concerned  with  illustration  first 
and  last,  as  he  was  illustrator  and  nothing  else. 
He  taught  the  proceeding  school  of  illustrators 
much  in  the  significance  of  verity,  and  in  the  ways 
and  means  of  expressing  verity  in  terms  of  pigment. 
What  the  stiff  pen  and  ink  drawings  and  the  cold 
engravings  of  his  time  taught  him,  he  conferred 
upon  the  later  men  in  terms  of  freedom  of  tech 
nique.  And  at  the  same  time  he  rose  a  place,  as 
painter  and  artist  of  no  mean  order,  by  a  certain 
distinction  inherent  in  him.  He  had  little  feeling 
for  synthesis  outside  of  the  water-colours,  and  here 
it  was  necessary  by  virtue  of  the  limitations  of  the 
medium. 


WINSLOW  HOMER 

Winslow  Homer  will  not  stimulate  for  all  time 
only  because  his  mind  was  too  local.  There  is 
nothing  of  universal  appeal  in  him.  His  realism 
will  never  reach  the  height  even  of  the  sea-pieces 
of  Courbet,  and  I  shall  include  Ryder  as  well. 
Courbet  was  a  fine  artist,  and  so  was  Ryder,  and 
both  had  the  advantage  of  exceptional  imagination. 
Homer  and  Ryder  are  natives  of  the  same  coast 
and  typify  excellently  the  two  poles  in  the  New  Eng 
land  temper,  both  in  art  and  in  life.  Homer  as  » 
realist,  had  the  one  idea  in  mind  only,  to  illustrate 
realism  as  best  he  could  in  the  most  distinguished 
terms  at  the  disposal  of  his  personality.  He  suc 
ceeded  admirably. 

Homer  typifies  a  certain  sturdiness  in  the  Amer 
ican  temper  at  least,  and  sends  the  lighter  men  • 
away  with  his  roughness,  as  doubtless  he  sent  the 
curious  away  from  his  cliffs  with  the  acidity  of  truth 
he  poured  upon  them.  He  had  lived  so  much  in 
the  close  association  of  the  roughest  elements  in  ex 
istence,  rocks  and  the  madly  swinging  sea  that  glides 
over  and  above  them  defiantly,  that  he  had  without 
doubt  taken  on  the  character  of  them.  The  por 
trait  of  Homer  gives  him  as  one  would  expect  him 
to  look,  and  he  looks  like  his  pictures.  His  visage 
bore  a  ferocity  that  had  to  be  met  with  a  rocky  cer 
tainty.  It  is  evident  there  was  no  fooling  him.  He 
was  filled  with  yankee  tenacity  and  yankee  courage. 
Homer  is  what  you  would  expect  to  find  if  you  were 
told  to  hunt  up  the  natives  of  "Prout's  Neck"  or 

47 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

"Perkins  Cove,"  or  any  of  the  inlets  of  the  Maine 
coast.  These  sea  people  live  so  much  with  the 
roughness  of  the  sea,  that  if  they  are  at  all  inclined 
to  acidity,  and  the  old  fashioned  yankee  was  sure 
to  be,  they  take  on  the  hard  edges  of  a  man's  tem 
per  in  accordance  with  the  jaggedness  of  the  shores 
on  which  they  live.  The  man  around  the  rocks 
looks  so  very  like  the  profiles  one  sees  in  the  rocks 
themselves.  They  have  absorbed  the  energy  of  the 
dramatic  elements  they  cope  with,  and  you  may  be 
sure  that  life  around  the  sea  in  New  England  is  no 
easy  existence;  and  they  give  out  the  same  salty 
equivalent  in  human  association. 
^\  If  you  have  lived  by  the  sea,  you  have  learned 
the  significance  of  the  bravery  of  sea  people,  and 
you  learn  to  understand  and  excuse  the  sharpness 
of  them  which  is  given  them  from  battle  with  the 
elemental  facts  they  are  confronted  with  at  all  times. 
That  is  the  character  of  Homer,  that  is  the  quality 
of  his  painting.  That  is  what  makes  him  original 
in  the  American  sense,  and  so  recognizable  in  the 
New  England  sense.  He  is  one  of  New  England's 
strongest  spokesmen,  and  takes  his  place  by  the  side 
of  Ryder,  Thoreau,  Hawthorne,  Fuller,  Whittier, 
and  such  representative  temperaments,  and  it  is  this 
quality  that  distinguishes  him  from  men  like  Inness, 
Wyant,  and  the  less  typical  painters.  It  is  obvious, 
too,  that  he  never  painted  any  other  coast,  except 
ing  of  course  Florida,  in  the  water  colours. 


WINSLOW  HOMER 

It  was  Florida  that  produced  the  chef  d'ceuvre 
in  him.  It  was  Maine  that  taught  him  the  force 
of  the  southern  aspect.  Romancer  among  the  real- 
istic  facts  of  nature,  he  might  be  called,  for  he  did 
not  merely  copy  nature.  He  did  invest  things  with 
their  own  suggestive  reality,  and  he  surmounted  his 
earlier  gifts  for  exact  illustration  by  this  other  finer 
gift  for  romantic  appreciation.  Homer  was  an 
excellent  narrator,  as  will  be  seen  in  the  "Gulf 
Stream"  picture  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum.  It 
has  the  powers  of  Jack  London  and  of  Conrad  in 
it.  Homer  was  intense,  vigorous,  and  masculine. 
If  he  was  harsh  in  his  characteristics,  he  was  one 
who  knew  the  worth  of  economy  in  emotion.  He 
was  one  with  his  idea  and  his  metier,  and  that  is 
sufficient. 


49 


AMERICAN  VALUES  IN  PAINTING 

THERE  are  certain  painters  who  join  themselves 
together  in  a  kind  of  grouping,  which,  whether  they 
wish  to  think  of  themselves  in  this  light  or  not, 
have  become  in  the  matter  of  American  values  in 
painting,  a  fixed  associative  aspect  of  painting  in 
America.  When  we  speak  of  American  painting, 
the  choice  is  small,  but  definite  as  to  the  number  of 
artists,  and  the  type  of  art  they  wished  themselves 
to  be  considered  for.  From  the  Hudson  River 
grouping,  which  up  to  Inness  is  not  more  marked 
than  as  a  set  of  men  copying  nature  with  scrupulous 
fidelity  to  detail,  rather  than  conveying  any  special 
feeling  or  notion  of  what  a  picture  of,  or  the  land 
scape  itself,  may  convey;  and  leaving  aside  the 
American  pupils  of  the  Academy  in  Paris  and  Rome, 
most  of  whom  returned  with  a  rich  sense  of  rhetor 
ical  conventionalities  in  art — men  like  William  Mor 
ris  Hunt  and  Washington  Allston — we  may  turn  to 
that  other  group  of  men  as  being  far  more  typical 
of  our  soil  and  temper.  I  mean  artists  such  as 
Homer  Martin,  Albert  P.  Ryder,  George  Fuller, 
and  the  later  Winslow  Homer  who  certainly  did  re 
ceive  more  recognition  than  any  of  them  prior  to 
his  death. 

Martin,  Ryder,  and  Fuller  could  not  have  en 
joyed  much  in  the  way  of  appreciation  outside  of  a 

50 


AMERICAN  VALUES  IN  PAINTING 

few  artists  of  their  time,  and  even  now  they  may  be 
said  to  be  the  artists  for  artists.  It  is  reasonable 
to  hope  that  they  were  not  successful,  since  that 
which  was  a  la  mode  in  the  expression  of  their  time 
was  essentially  of  the  dry  Academy.  One  would 
hardly  think  of  Homer  Martin's  "Border  of  the 
Seine"  landscape  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum, 
hardly  more  then  than  now,  and  it  leaves  many  a 
painter  flat  in  appreciation  of  its  great  dignity,  aus 
terity,  reserve,  and  for  the  distinguished  quality  of 
its  stylism.  What  Martin  may  have  gotten,  dur 
ing  his  stay  in  Europe,  which  is  called  impression 
ism  is,  it  must  be  said,  a  more  aristocratic  type  of 
impressionism  than  issued  from  the  Monet  follow 
ers.  Martin  must  then  have  been  knowing  some 
thing  of  the  more  dignified  intellectualism  of  Pissarro 
and  of  Sisley,  those  men  who  have  been  the  last  to 
reach  the  degrees  of  appreciation  due  them  in  the 
proper  exactitude. 

We  cannot  think  of  Martin  as  ever  having  carried 
off  academic  medals  during  his  period.  We  cannot 
think  of  Martin  as  President  of  the  Academy,  which 
position  was  occupied  by  a  far  inferior  artist  who 
was  likewise  carried  away  by  impressionism,  namely 
Alden  Weir.  The  actual  attachment  in  character 
istic  of  introspective  temper  in  Alden  Weir  is  not 
so  removed  from  Martin,  Fuller  and  Ryder  as  might 
be  imagined;  he  is  more  like  Martin  perhaps  though 
far  less  profound  in  his  sense  of  mystery;  Fuller 
being  more  the  romanticist  and  Ryder  in  my  esti- 

51 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

mation  the  greatest  romanticist,  and  artist  as  well, 
of  all  of  these  men.  But  Alden  Weir  failed  to 
carry  off  any  honor  as  to  distinctive  qualities  and 
invention.  A  genial  aristocrat  if  you  will,  but  hav 
ing  for  me  no  marked  power  outside  of  a  Barbi- 
zonian  interest  in  nature  with  a  kind  of  mystical 
detachedness. 

^  But  in  the  consideration  of  painters  like  Martin, 
Fuller  and  Ryder  we  are  thinking  chiefly  of  their 
relation  to  their  time  as  well  as  their  relation  to 
what  is  to  come  in  America.  America  has  had  as 
much  painting  considering  its  youth  as  could  be  ex 
pected  of  it  and  the  best  of  it  has  been  essentially 
native  and  indigenous.  But  in  and  out  of  the  vari 
ous  influences  and  traditional  tendencies,  these  sev 
eral  artists  with  fine  imaginations,  typical  American 
imaginations,  were  proceeding  with  their  own  pe 
culiarly  original  and  significantly  personal  expres 
sions.  They  represent  up  to  their  arrival,  and  long 
after  as  well,  all  there  is  of  real  originality  in  Amer 
ican  painting,  and  they  remain  for  all  time  as  fine 
examples  of  artists  with  purely  native  imaginations, 
working  out  at  great  cost  their  own  private  salva 
tions  for  public  discovery  at  a  later  time. 

All  these  men  were  poor  men  with  highly  distin 
guished  aristocratic  natures  and  powerful  physiques, 
as  to  appearances,  with  mentalities  much  beyond  the 
average.  When  an  exhibition  of  modern  American 
painting  is  given,  as  it  surely  will  and  must  be,  these 
men  and  not  the  Barbizonian  echoes  as  represented 

5* 


AMERICAN  VALUES  IN  PAINTING 

by  Inness,  Wyant  &  Co.,  will  represent  for  us  the 
really  great  beginning  of  art  in  America.  There 
will  follow  naturally  artists  like  Twachtman  and 
Robinson,  as  likewise  Kenneth  Hayes  Miller  and 
Arthur  B.  Davies  for  reasons  that  I  think  are  rather 
obvious:  both  Hayes  Miller  and  Arthur  B.  Davies 
having  skipped  over  the  direct  influence  of  impres 
sionism  by  reason  of  their  attachment  to  Renais 
sance  ideas;  having  joined  themselves  by  conviction 
in  perhaps  slight  degrees  to  aspects  of  modern  paint 
ing.  Miller  is,  one  might  say,  too  intellectually  de 
liberate  to  allow  for  spontaneities  which  mere  en 
thusiasms  encourage.  Miller  is  emotionally  thrilled 
by  Renoir  but  he  is  never  quite  swept.  His  essen 
tial  conservatism  hinders  such  violence.  It  would 
be  happier  for  him  possibly  if  the  leaning  were  still 
more  pronounced. 

The  jump  to  modernism  in  Arthur  B.  Davies  re 
sults  in  the  same  sort  of  way  as  admixture  of  in 
fluence  though  it  is  more  directly  appreciable  in  him. 
Davies  is  more  willing,  by  reason  of  his  elastic  tem 
per  and  intellectual  vivacity,  to  stray  into  the  field 
of  new  ideas  with  a  simple  though  firm  belief,  that 
they  are  good  while  they  last,  no  matter  how  long 
they  last.  Davies  is  almost  a  propagandist  in  his 
feeling  for  and  admiration  of  the  ultra-modern 
movement.  Miller  is  a  questioner  and  ponders 
long  upon  every  point  of  consequence  or  inconse 
quence.  He  is  a  metaphysical  analyst  which  is  per 
haps  the  extraneous  element  in  his  painting.  In 

53 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

his  etching,  that  is,  the  newest  of  it,  one  feels  the 
sense  of  the  classical  and  the  modern  joined  together 
and  by  the  classical  I  mean  the  quality  of  Ingres, 
conjoined  with  modern  as  in  Renoir,  relieved  of  the 
influence  of  Italian  Renaissance. 

But  I  do  not  wish  to  lose  sight  of  these  several 
forerunners  in  American  art,  Martin,  Ryder  and 
Fuller  who,  in  their  painting,  may  be  linked  not 
without  relativity  to  our  artists  in  literary  imagina 
tion,  Hawthorne  and  Poe.  Fuller  is  conspicuously 
like  Hawthorne,  not  by  his  appreciation  of  witch 
craft  merely,  but  by  his  feeling  for  those  eery  pres 
ences  which  determine  the  fates  of  men  and  women 
in  their  time.  Martin  is  the  purer  artist  for  me 
since  he  seldom  or  never  resorted  to  the  literary  emo 
tion  in  the  sense  of  drama  or  narrative,  whereas  in 
the  instances  of  Ryder  or  Fuller  they  built  up  ex 
pression  entirely  from  literary  experience.  Albert 
*  Ryder  achieves  most  by  reason  of  his  vaster  poetic 
sensibility — his  Homeric  instincts  for  the  drama  and 
by  a  very  original  power  for  arabesque.  He  is 
alone  among  the  Americans  in  his  unique  gift  for 
pattern.  We  can  claim  Albert  Ryder  as  our  most 
original  painter  as  Poe  takes  his  place  as  our  most 
original  poet  who  had  of  course  one  of  the  great 
est  and  most  perfect  imaginations  of  his  time  and 
possibly  of  all  time. 

But  it  is  these  several  painters  I  speak  of,  Mar 
tin,  Ryder,  and  Fuller,  who  figure  for  us  as  the 
originators  of  American  indigenous  painting.  They 

54 


AMERICAN  VALUES  IN  PAINTING 

will  not  be  copied  for  they  further  nothing  beyond 
themselves.  No  influence  of  these  painters  has 
been  notable,  excepting  for  a  time  in  the  early  ex 
perience  of  one  of  the  younger  modernists  who,  by 
reason  of  definite  associations  of  birthright  and  rela 
tivity  of  environment,  essayed  to  claim  Albert  Ryder 
as  a  very  definite  influence;  just  as  Courbet  and 
Corot  must  in  their  ways  have  been  powerful  in 
fluences  upon  Ryder  himself.  Albert  Ryder  is  too 
much  of  a  figure  to  dismiss  here  with  group-rela 
tionship,  he  must  be  treated  of  separately.  So  far 
then,  there  is  no  marked  evidence  that  the  influence 
of  Fuller  or  Martin  was  powerful  enough  to  carry 
beyond  themselves.  They  had  no  tenets  or  theories 
other  than  those  of  personal  clarification.  All  three 
remained  the  hermit  radicals  of  life,  as  they  remain 
isolated  examples  in  American  art;  and  all  of  them 
essentially  of  New  England,  in  that  they  were  con 
spicuously  introspective,  and  shut  in  upon  their  own 
exclusive  experience. 

But  for  all  these  variances,  we  shall  find  Homer 
Martin,  George  Fuller,  and  Albert  Ryder  forming 
the  first  nucleus  for  a  definite  value  in  strictly  Amer 
ican  painting.  They  were  conscious  of  nothing 
really  outside  of  native  associations  and  native  de 
ductions.  The  temper  of  them  is  as  essentially 
American  as  the  quality  of  them  is  essentially  East 
ern  in  flavor.  They  seldom  ventured  beyond  more 
than  a  home-spun  richness  of  color,  though  in 

55 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

Ryder's  case  Monticelli  had  assisted  very  definitely 
in  his  notion  of  the  volume  of  tone.  We  find  here 
then  despite  the  impress  of  artists  like  William 
Morris  Hunt,  Washington  Allston,  and  the  later 
Inness  with  the  still  later  Winslow  Homer,  that 
gripping  and  relentless  realist  who  took  hold  of  the 
newer  school  of  painter-illustrators,  that  the  artists 
treated  of  here  may  be  considered  as  the  most  im 
portant  phase  of  American  painting  in  the  larger 
sense  of  the  term.  If  I  were  to  assist  in  the  ar 
rangement  of  an  all  American  exhibition  to  show 

,  the  trend  toward  individualism  I  should  begin  with 
Martin,  Fuller  and  Ryder.  I  should  then  proceed 
to  Winslow  Homer,  John  H.  Twachtman,  Theodore 
Robinson,  Hayes  Miller,  Arthur  B.  Davies,  Rock 
well  Kent,  then  to  those  who  come  under  the 
eighteen-ninety  tendency  in  painting,  namely  the 
Whistler-Goya-Velasquez  influence. 

From  this  it  will  be  found  that  an  entirely  new 
development  had  taken  place  among  a  fairly  large 
group  of  younger  men  who  came,  and  very  ear 
nestly,  under  the  Cezannesque  influence.  It  may  be 
said  that  the  choice  of  these  men  is  a  wise  one  for  it 

I  is  conspicuous  among  artists  of  today  that  since 
Cezanne  art  will  never,  cannot  ever  be  the  same, 

r  just  as  with  Delacroix  and  Courbet  a  French  art 
could  never  have  remained  the  same.  Impression 
ism  will  be  found  to  have  had  a  far  greater  value 
as  a  suggestive  influence  than  as  a  creative  one.  It 

56 


AMERICAN  VALUES  IN  PAINTING 

brought  light  in  as  a  scientific  aspect  into  modern 
painting  and  that  is  its  valuable  contribution.  So 
it  is  that  with  Cezanne  the  world  is  conscious  of 
a  new  power  that  will  never  be  effectually  shaken 
off,  since  the  principles  that  are  involved  in  the  in 
tention  of  Cezanne  are  of  too  vital  importance  to  be 
treated  with  lightness  of  judgment.  Such  valuable 
ideas  as  Cezanne  contributes  must  be  accepted  al 
most  as  dogma,  albeit  valuable  dogma.  Influence  is 
a  conscious  and  necessary  factor  in  the  development 
of  all  serious  minded  artists,  as  we  have  seen  in  the 
instances  of  all  important  ones. 

So  it  is  I  feel  that  the  real  art  of  America,  and 
it  can,  I  think,  justly  be  said  that  there  is  such,  will 
be  headed  by  the  imaginative  artists  I  have  named 
in  point  of  their  value  as  indigenous  creators,  having 
worked  out  their  artistic  destinies  on  home  soil  with 
all  the  virility  of  creators  in  the  finer  sense  of  the 
term.  They  have  assisted  in  the  establishment  of 
a  native  tradition  which  without  question  has  by  this 
time  a  definite  foundation.  The  public  must  be 
made  aware  of  their  contribution  to  a  native  pro 
duction.  It  will  no  doubt  be  a  matter  for  surprise 
to  many  people  in  the  world  today  that  art  in  gen 
eral  is  more  national  or  local  than  it  has  ever  been, 
due  mostly  to  the  recent  upheaval,  which  has  been 
of  great  service  to  the  re-establishment  of  art  in 
terest  and  art  appreciation  everywhere  in  the  mod 
ern  world.  Art,  like  life,  has  had  to  begin  all  over 

57 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

again,  for  the  very  end  of  the  world  had  been  made 
visible  at  last.  The  artist  may  look  safely  over  an 
utterly  new  horizon,  which  is  the  only  encourage 
ment  the  artist  of  today  can  hope  for. 


MODERN  ART  IN  AMERICA 

THE  question  may  be  asked,  what  is  the  hope  of 
modern  art  in  America?  The  first  reply  would  be 
that  modern  art  will  one  day  be  realized  in  America 
if  only  from  experience  we  learn  that  all  things  hap 
pen  in  America  by  means  of  the  epidemical  princi 
ple.  It  is  of  little  visible  use  that  single  individuals, 
by  sitting  in  the  solitary  confinement  of  their  as  yet 
little  understood  enthusiasms,  shall  hope  to  achieve 
what  is  necessary  for  the  American  idea,  precisely 
as  necessary  for  us  here  as  for  the  peoples  of  Eu 
rope  who  have  long  since  recognized  that  any  move 
ment  toward  expression  is  a  movement  of  unques 
tionable  importance.  Until  the  moment  when  public 
sincerity  and  the  public  passion  for  excitement  is 
stimulated,  the  vague  art  interests  of  America  will 
go  on  in  their  dry  and  conventional  manner.  The 
very  acute  discernment  of  Maurice  Vlaminck  that 
"intelligence  is  international,  stupidity  is  national, 
art  is  local"  is  a  valuable  deduction  to  make,  and  ap 
plies  in  the  two  latter  instances  as  admirably  to 
America  as  to  any  other  country.  Our  national 
stupidity  in  matters  of  esthetic  modernity  is  a  mat 
ter  for  obvious  acceptance,  and  not  at  all  for  amaze 
ment. 

That  art  is  local  is  likewise  just  as  true  of  America 
as  of  any  other  country,  and  despite  the  judgment 

59 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

of  stodgy  minds,  there  is  a  definite  product  which 
is  peculiar  to  our  specific  temper  and  localized  sensi 
bility  as  it  is  of  any  other  country  which  is  nameable. 
Despite  the  fact  that  impressionism  is  still  exaggera 
tion,  and  that  large  sums  are  still  being  paid  for  a 
"sheep-piece"  of  Charles  Jacque,  as  likewise  for  a 
Ridgeway  Knight,  there  is  a  well  defined  grouping 
of  younger  painters  working  for  a  definitely  local 
ized  idea  of  modernism,  just  as  in  modern  poetry 
there  is  a  grouping  of  poets  in  America  who  are 
adding  new  values  to  the  English  language,  as  well 
as  assisting  in  the  realization  of  a  freshly  evolved 
localized  personality  in  modern  poetics. 
''  £Art  in  America  is  like  a  patent  medicine,  or  a 
I  vacuum  cleaner.  It  can  hope  for  no  success  until 
I  ninety  million  people  know  what  it  is  J  The  spread 
of  art  as  "culture"  in  America  is  from  all  appear 
ances  having  little  or  no  success  because  stupidity 
in  such  matters  is  so  national.  There  is  a  very 
vague  consideration  of  modern  art  among  the  direc 
tors  of  museums  and  among  art  dealers,  but  the  com 
prehension  is  as  vague  as  the  interest.  Outside  of 
a  Van  Gogh  exhibition,  a  few  Matisses,  now  and 
then  a  Cezanne  exhibited  with  great  feeling  of  con 
descension,  there  is  little  to  show  the  American  pub 
lic  that  art  is  as  much  a  necessity  as  a  substantial 
array  of  food  is  to  an  empty  stomach.  [The  public 
hunger  cannot  groan  for  what  it  does  not  recog 
nize  as  real  nourishment.^]  There  is  no  reason  in 
the  world  why  America  does  not  have  as  many 

60 


MODERN  ART  IN  AMERICA 

chances  to  see  modern  art  as  Europe  has,  save  for 
minor  matters  of  distance.  The  peoples  of  the 
world  are  alike,  sensibilities  are  of  the  same  nature 
everywhere  among  the  so-called  civilized,  and  it 
must  be  remembered  always  that  the  so-called  primi 
tive  races  invented  for  their  own  racial  salvation 
what  was  not  to  be  found  ready  made  for  them. 
\Modern  art  is  just  as  much  of  a  necessity  to  us  as 
art  was  to  the  Egyptians,  the  Assyrians,  the  Greeks. 
Those  peoples  have  the  advantage  of  us  only  be 
cause  they  were  in  a  higher  state  of  culture  as  a  racial 
unit]  They  have  no  more  of  a  monopoly  upon  the 
idea  of  rhythm  and  organization  than  we  have,  be 
cause  that  which  was  typical  of  the  human  conscious 
ness  then,  is  typical  of  it  now.  As  a  result  of  the 
war,  there  has  been,  it  must  be  said,  a  heightening 
of  national  consciousness  in  all  countries,  because 
creative  minds  that  were  allowed  to  survive  were 
sent  home  to  struggle  with  the  problem  of  their 
own  soil. 

[There  is  no  reason  whatever  for  believing  that 
America  cannot  have  as  many  good  artists  as  any 
other  country.    It  simply  does  not  have  them  because' 
the  integrity  of  the  artist  is  trifled  with  by  the 
triguing  agencies  of  materialism.     Painters  find  the 
struggle  too  keen  and  it  is  easy  to  become  the  adver 
tising  designer,  or  the  merchant  in  painting,  which  is 
what  many  of  our  respectable  artists  have  become. 
The  lust  for  prosperity  takes  the  place  of  artistic^t> 
integrity  and  couragejf   But  America  need  not  be 

61 


my 

usel 
in-\ 

t\M^  \ 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

surprised  to  find  that  it  has  a  creditable  grouping  of 
artists  sufficiently  interested  in  the  value  of  modern 
art  as  an  expression  of  our  time,  men  and  possibly 
some  women,  who  feel  that  art  is  a  matter  of  private 
aristocratic  satisfaction  at  least,  until  the  public  is 
awakened  to  the  idea  that  art  is  an  essentially  local 
affair  and  the  more  local  it  becomes  by  means  of 
comprehension,  of  the  international  character,  the 
truer  it  will  be  to  the  place  in  which  it  is  produced. 

A  catalogue  of  names  will  suffice  to  indicate  the 
character  and  variation  of  the  localized  degree  of 
expression  we  are  free  to  call  American  in  type: 
Morgan  Russell,  S.  Macdonald  Wright,  Arthur  G. 
Dove,  William  Yarrow,  Dickinson,  Thomas  H. 
Benton,  Abraham  Walkowitz,  Max  Weber,  Ben 
Benn,  John  Marin,  Charles  Demuth,  Charles 
Sheeler,  Marsden  Hartley, "Andrew  Dasburg,  Wil 
liam  McFee,  Man  Ray,  Walt  Kuhn,  John  Covert, 
Morton  Schamberg,  Georgia  O'Keeffe,  Stuart  Davis, 
Rex  Slinkard.  Added  to  these,  the  three  modern 
photographers  Alfred  Stieglitz,  Charles  Sheeler, 
and  Paul  Strand  must  be  included.  Besides  these 
indigenous  names,  shall  we  place  the  foreign  artists 
whose  work  falls  into  line  in  the  movement  toward 
modern  art  in  America,  Joseph  Stella,  Marcel 
Duchamp,  Gaston  Lachaise,  Eli  Nadelman.  There 
may  be  no  least  questioning  as  to  how  much  success 
all  of  these  artists  would  have  in  their  respective 
ways  in  the  various  groupings  that  prevail  in  Europe 
at  this  time.  They  would  be  recognized  at  once 

62 


MODERN  ART  IN  AMERICA 

for  the  authenticity  of  their  experience  and  for 
their  integrity  as  artists  gifted  with  international  in 
telligence.  There  is  no  reason  to  feel  that  prevail 
ing  organizations  like  the  Society  of  Independent 
Artists,  Inc.,  and  the  Societe  Anonyme,  Inc.,  will  not 
bear  a  great  increase  of  influence  and  power  upon 
the  public,  as  there  is  every  reason  to  believe 
that  at  one  time  or  another  the  public  will  realize 
what  is  being  done  for  them  by  these  societies, 
as  well  as  what  was  done  by  the  so  famous  "291" 
gallery. 

The  effect  however  is  not  vast  enough  because 
the  public  finds  no  shock  in  the  idea  of  art.     It  is 
not  melodramatic  enough  and  America  must  be  ap 
pealed  to  through   its  essentially  typical   melodra-i 
matic  instincts.     There  is  always  enough  music,  and 
there  are  some  who  certainly  can  say  altogether  too 
much  of  the  kind  there  is  in  this  country.    The  same 
thing  can  be  said  of  painting.     There  is  altogether 
too  much  of  comfortable  art,  the  art  of  the  upliftedN 
illustration.      It  is   the   reflex  of  the  Anglo-Saxon/ 
passion  for  story-telling  in  pictures  which  should  be  J 
relegated  to  the  field  of  the  magazines.     Great  art 
often  tells  a  story  but  great  art  is  always  something 
plus  the  idea.     Ordinary  art  does  not  rise  above  it. 

I  often  wonder  why  it  is  that  America,  which  is  \ 
essentially  a  country  of  sports  and  gamblers,  has  l 
not  the  European  courage  as  well  as  rapacity  for 
fresh  development  in  cultural  matters.     Can  it  be 
because  America  is  not  really  intelligent?     I  should 

63 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

be  embarrassed  in  thinking  so.  /..There  is  neverthe- 
*  less  an  obvious  lethargy  in  the  appreciation  of  cre 
ative  taste  and  a  still  lingering  yet  old-fashioned 
faith  in  the  continual  necessity  for  importation.]] 
America  has  a  great  body  of  assimilators,  and  out 
of  this  gift  for  uncreative  assimilation  has  come 
the  type  of  art  we  are  supposed  to  accept  as  our 
own.  It  is  not  at  all  difficult  to  prove  that  America 
has  now  an  encouraging  and  competent  group  of 
young  and  vigorous  synthesists  who  are  showing  with 
intelligence  what  they  have  learned  from  the  newest 
and  most  engaging  development  of  art,  which  is  to 
say — modern  art.  The  names  which  have  been 
inserted  above  are  the  definite  indication,  and  one 
may  go  so  far  as  to  say  proof,  of  this  argument  that 
modern  art  in  America  is  rapidly  becoming  an  in 
telligently  localized  realization. 


OUR  IMAGINATIVES 

Is  it  vision  that  creates  temperament  or  tempera 
ment  that  creates  vision?  Physical  vision  is  re 
sponsible  for  nearly  everything  in  art,  not  the  power 
to  see  but  the  way  to  see.  It  is  the  eye  perfect  or 
the  eye  defective  that  determines  the  kind  of  thing 
seen  and  how  one  sees  it.  It  was  certainly  a  factor 
in  the  life  of  Lafcadio  Hearn,  for  he  was  once  named 
the  poet  of  myopia.  It  was  the  acutely  sensitive 
eye  of  Cezanne  that  taught  him  to  register  so  ablyv 
the  minor  and  major  variations  of  his  theme.  Manet 
saw  certainly  far  less  colour  than  Renoir,  for  in  the 
Renoir  sense  he  was  not  a  colourist  at  all.  He  him 
self  said  he  painted  only  what  he  saw.  Sight  was  ' 
almost  science  with  Cezanne  as  it  was  passion. 

In  artists  like  Homer  Martin  there  is  a  something 
less  than  visual  accuracy  and  something  more  than 
a  gift  of  translation.  There  is  a  distinguished  in 
terpretation  of  mood  coupled  with  an  almost  minia 
ture-like  sense  of  delicate  gradation,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  something  lacking  as  to  a  sense  of  physical 
form.  In  the  few  specimens  of  Martin  to  be  seen 
there  is,  nevertheless,  eminent  distinction  paramount. 
He  was  an  artist  of  "oblique  integrity":  He  saw 
unquestionably  at  an  angle,  but  the  angle  was  a  beau- 

65 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

tiful  one,  and  while  many  of  his  associates  were 
doing  American  Barbizon,  he  was  giving  forth  a  shy, 
yet  rare  kind  of  expression,  always  a  little  symbolic 
in  tendency,  with  the  mood  far  more  predominant. 
In  "The  sand  dunes  of  Ontario"  there  will  be  found 
at  once  a  highly  individualistic  feeling  for  the  waste 
places  of  the  world.  There  is  never  so  much  as  a 
hint  of  banality  in  his  selection.  He  never  resorts 
to  stock  rhetoric. 

Martin  will  be  remembered  for  his  singularly 
personal  touch  along  with  men  like  Fuller  and  Ryder. 
He  is  not  as  dramatic  as  either  of  these  artists,  but 
he  has  greater  finesse  in  delicate  sensibility.  He 
was,  I  think,  actually  afraid  of  repetition,  a  charac 
teristic  very  much  in  vogue  in  his  time,  either  con 
scious  or  unconscious,  in  artists  like  Inness,  Wyant, 
and  Blakelock,  with  their  so  single  note.  There  is 
exceptional  mysticity  hovering  over  his  hills  and 
stretches  of  dune  and  sky.  It  is  not  fog,  or  rain, 
or  dew  enveloping  them.  It  is  a  certain  veiled  pres 
ence  in  nature  that  he  sees  and  brings  forward.  His 
picture  of  peaks  of  the  White  Mountains,  Jefferson 
and  Madison,  gives  you  no  suggestion  of  the  "Hud 
son  River"  emptiness.  He  was  searching  for  pro- 
founder  realities.  He  wanted  the  personality  of  his 
places,  and  he  was  successful,  for  all  of  his  pictures 
I  have  seen  display  the  magnetic  touch.  He 
"touched  it  off"  vividly  in  all  of  them.  They  reveal 
their  ideas  poetically  and  esthetically  and  the  method 
is  personal  and  ample  for  presentation. 

66 


OUR  IMAGINATIVES 

With  George  Fuller  it  was  vastly  different.  He 
seemed  always  to  be  halting  in  the  shadow.  You 
are  conscious  of  a  deep  and  ever  so  earnest  nature 
in  his  pictures.  He  impressed  himself  on  his  can 
vases  in  spite  of  his  so  faulty  expression.  He  had 
an  understanding  of  depth  but  surface  was  strange 
to  him.  He  garbled  his  sentences  so  to  speak  with 
excessive  and  useless  wording.  "The  Octoroon" 
shows  a  fine  feeling  for  romance  as  do  all  of  the 
other  pictures  of  Fuller  that  have  been  publicly  vis 
ible,  but  it  is  romance  obsessed  with  monotone. 
There  is  the  evidence  of  extreme  reticence  and  mood- 
iness  in  Fuller  always.  I  know  little  of  him  save  that 
I  believe  he  experienced  a  severity  of  domestic  prob 
lems.  Farmer  I  think  he  was,  and  painted  at  off 
hours  all  his  life.  It  is  the  poetry  of  a  quiet,  almost^ 
sombre  order,  walking  in  the  shadow  on  the  edge., 
of  a  wood  being  almost  too  much  of  an  appearance^ 
for  him  in  the  light  of  a  busy  world. 

Why  is  it  I  think  of  Hawthorne  when  I  think  of 
Fuller?  Is  there  a  relationship  here,  or  is  it  only  a 
similarity  of  eeriness  in  temper?  I  would  suspect 
Fuller  of  having  painted  a  Hester  Prynne  excepting 
that  he  could  never  have  come  to  so  much  red  in  one 
place  in  his  pictures. 

There  was  vigour  in  these  strong,  simple  men, 
masculine  in  sensibility  all  of  them,  and  a  fine  feeling 
for  the  poetic  shades  of  existence.  They  were  in 
tensely  serious  men,  and  I  think  from  their  isolation 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

in  various  ways,  not  popular  in  their  time.  Neither 
are  they  popular  now.  They  will  only  be  admired  by 
artists  of  perception,  and  by  laymen  of  keen  sensi 
bility.  Whether  their  enforced  isolations  taught 
them  to  brood,  or  whether  they  were  brooders  by 
nature,  it  is  difficult  to  say.  I  think  they  were  all 
easterners,  and  this  would  explain  away  certain  char 
acteristic  shynesses  of  temper  and  of  expression  in 
them.  Ryder,  as  we  know,  was  the  typical  recluse, 
Fuller  in  all  likelihood  also.  Martin  I  know  little 
of  privately,  but  his  portrait  shows  him  to  be  a 
strong  elemental  nature,  with  little  feeling  for,  or 
interest  in,  the  superficialities  either  of  life  or  of  art. 
Of  Blakelock  I  can  say  but  little,  for  I  do  not  know 
him  beyond  a  few  stylish  canvases  which  seem  to 
have  more  of  Diaz  and  Rousseau  in  them  than  con 
tributes  to  real  originality,  and  he  was  one  of  the 
painters  of  repetition  also.  A  single  good  Blakelock 
is  beautiful,  and  I  think  he  must  be  included  among 
the  American  imaginatives,  but  I  do  not  personally 
feel  the  force  of  him  in  several  canvases  together. 

All  of  these  artists  are  singularly  individual, 
dreamers  like  Mathew  Maris  and  Marees  of 
Europe.  They  all  have  something  of  Coleridge 
about  them,  something  of  Poe,  something  of  the 
"Ancient  Mariner"  and  the  "Haunted  Palace",  sail 
ors  in  the  same  ship,  sleepers  in  the  same  house. 
All  of  these  men  were  struggling  at  the  same  time, 
the  painters  I  mean,  the  same  hour  it  might  be  said, 

68 


OUR  IMAGINATIVES 

in  the  midst  of  conventions  of  a  severer  type  of 
rigidity  than  now,  to  preserve  themselves  from  com 
monplace  utterance.  They  were  not  affected  by 
fashions.  They  had  the  one  idea  in  mind,  to  express 
themselves  in  terms  of  themselves,  and  they  were 
singularly  successful  in  this  despite  the  various  diffi 
culties  of  circumstance  and  of  temper  that  attended 
them.  They  understood  what  this  was  better  than 
anyone,  and  the  results  in  varying  degrees  of  genius 
attest  to  the  quality  of  the  American  imagination  at 
its  best. 

I  should  like,  for  purposes  of  reference,  to  see  a 
worthy  exhibition  of  all  of  these  men  in  one  place. 
It  would  I  am  sure  prove  my  statement  that  the 
eastern  genius  is  naturally  a  tragic  one,  for  all  of 
these  men  have  hardly  once  ventured  into  the  clear 
sunlight  of  the  world  of  every  day.  It  would  offset 
highly  also,  the  superficial  attitude  that  there  is  no 
imagination  in  American  painting.  We  should  not 
find  so  much  of  form  or  of  colour  in  them  in  the 
stricter  meaning  of  these  ideas,  as  of  mood.  They 
might  have  set  themselves  to  be  disciples  of  William 
Blake's  significant  preachment,  "put  off  intellect  and 
put  on  imagination,  the  imagination  is  the  man" ;  the 
intellect  being  the  cultivated  man,  and  the  imagina 
tion  being  the  natural  man.  There  is  imagination 
which  by  reason  of  its  power  and  brilliance  exceeds 
all  intellectual  effort,  and  effort  at  intellectualism  is 
worse  than  a  fine  ignorance  by  far.  Men  who  are 
highly  imaginative,  create  by  feeling  what  they  do 

69 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

not  or  cannot  know.  It  is  the  sixth  sense  of  the 
creator. 

These  artists  were  men  alone,  touched  with  the 
pristine  significance  of  nature.  It  was  pioneering  of 
a  difficult  nature,  precarious  as  all  individual  investi 
gation  of  a  spiritual  or  esthetic  character  is  sure  to 
be.  Its  first  requisite  is  isolation,  its  last  requisite  is 
appreciation.  All  of  these  painters  are  gone  over 
into  that  place  they  were  so  eager  to  investigate, 
illusion  or  reality.  Their  pictures  are  witness  here 
to  their  seriousness.  They  testify  to  the  bright  ever- 
lastingness  of  beauty.  If  they  have  not  swayed  the 
world,  they  have  left  a  dignified  record  in  the  art 
of  a  given  time.  Their  contemporary  value  is  at 
least  inestimable.  They  are  among  the  very  first  in 
the  development  of  esthetics  in  America  in  point  of 
merit.  They  made  no  compromise,  and  their  record 
is  clear. 

If  one  looks  over  the  record  of  American  art  up 
to  the  period  of  ultra-modernism,  it  will  be  found 
that  these  men  are  the  true  originals  among  Ameri 
can  painters.  We  shall  find  outside  of  them  and  a 
very  few  others,  so  much  of  sameness,  a  certain 
academic  convention  which,  however  pronounced  or 
meagre  the  personalities  are,  leave  those  person 
alities  in  the  category  of  "safe"  painters.  They  do 
not  disturb  by  an  excessively  intimate  point  of  view 
toward  art  or  toward  nature.  They  come  up  to 
gallery  requirements  by  their  "pleasantness"  or  the 
inoffensiveness  of  their  style.  They  offer  little  in 

70 


OUR  IMAGINATIVES 

the  way  of  interpretive  power  or  synthetic  under 
standing.  It  is  the  tendency  to  keep  on  the  comfort 
able  side  in  American  art.  Doubtless  it  is  more 
practical  as  any  innovator  or  investigator  has 
learned  for  himself.  Artists  like  Ryder  and  Mar 
tin  and  Fuller  had  nothing  in  common  with  market 
appreciations.  They  had  ideas  to  express,  and  were 
sincere  to  the  last  in  expressing  them. 

You  will  find  little  trace  of  commercialism  in 
these  men,  even  when,  as  in  the  case  of  Martin  and 
Ryder  and  I  do  not  know  whom  else,  they  did  panels 
for  somebody-or-other's  leather  screen,  of  which 
"Smuggler's  Cove"  and  the  other  long  panel  of 
Ryder's  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum  are  doubtless 
two.  They  were  not  successful  in  their  time  because 
they  could  not  repeat  their  performances.  We  know 
the  efforts  that  were  once  made  to  make  Ryder  com 
fortable  in  a  conventional  studio,  which  he  is  sup 
posed  to  have  looked  into  once;  and  then  he  dis 
appeared,  as  it  was  altogether  foreign  to  him.  Each 
picture  was  a  new  event  in  the  lives  of  these  men, 
and  had  to  be  pondered  over  devoutly,  and  for  long 
periods  often,  as  in  the  case  of  Ryder.  Work  was 
for  him  nine-tenths  reflection  and  meditation  and 
poetic  brooding,  and  he  put  down  his  sensations  on 
canvas  with  great  difficulty  in  the  manner  of  a  la 
bourer.  It  seems  obvious  that  his  first  drafts  were 
always  vivid  with  the  life  intended  for  them,  but 
no  one  could  possibly  have  suffered  with  the  idea  of 
how  to  complete  a  picture  more  than  he.  His  lack 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

of  facility  held  him  from  spontaneity,  as  it  is  like 
wise  somewhat  evident  in  Martin,  and  still  more  in 
Fuller. 

They  were  artists  in  timidity,  and  had  not  the 
courage  of  physical  force  in  painting.  With  them  it 
was  wholly  a  mental  process.  But  we  shall  count 
them  great  for  their  purity  of  vision  as  well  as  for 
the  sincerity  and  conviction  that  possessed  them. 
Artistry  of  this  sort  will  be  welcomed  anywhere,  if 
only  that  we  may  take  men  seriously  who  profess 
seriousness.  There  is  nothing  really  antiquated 
about  sincerity,  though  I  think  conventional  painters 
are  not  sure  of  that.  It  is  not  easy  to  think  that  men 
consent  to  repeat  themselves  from  choice,  and  yet 
the  passing  exhibitions  are  proof  of  that.  Martin 
and  Ryder  and  Fuller  refresh  us  with  a  poetic  and 
artistic  validity  which  places  them  out  of  association 
among  men  of  their  time  or  of  today,  in  the  field  of 
objective  and  illustrative  painters.  We  turn  to  them 
with  pleasure  after  a  journey  through  the  museums, 
for  their  reticence  let  us  say,  and  for  the  refinement 
of  their  vision,  their  beautiful  gift  of  restraint. 
They  emphasize  the  commonness  of  much  that  sur 
rounds  them,  much  that  blatantly  would  obscure  them 
if  they  were  not  pronouncedly  superior.  They  would 
not  be  discounted  to  any  considerable  degree  if  they 
were  placed  among  the  known  masters  of  landscape 
painters  of  all  modern  time.  They  would  hold  their 
own  by  the  verity  of  feeling  that  is  in  them,  and  what 
they  might  lose  in  technical  excellence,  would  be  com- 

72 


OUR  IMAGINATIVES 

pensated  for  in  uniqueness  of  personality.  I  should 
like  well  to  see  them  placed  beside  artists  like  Maris 
and  Marees,  and  even  Courbet.  It  would  surprise 
the  casual  appreciator  much,  I  believe. 


73 


OUR  IMPRESSIONISTS 

I  HAVE  for  purely  personal  reasons  chosen  the  two 
painters  who  formulate  for  me  the  conviction  that 
there  have  been  and  are  but  two  consistently  con 
vincing  American  impressionists.  These  gentlemen 
are  John  H.  Twachtman  and  Theodore  Robinson. 
I  cannot  say  precisely  in  what  year  Twachtman  died 
but  for  purposes  intended  here  this  data  is  of  no 
paramount  consequence,  save  that  it  is  always  a 
matter  of  query  as  to  just  how  long  an  artist  must 
live,  or  have  been  dead,  to  be  discovered  in  what 
is  really  his  own  time. 

John  H.  Twachtman  as  artist  is  difficult  to  know 
even  by  artists;  for  his  work  is  made  difficult  to  see 
either  by  its  scarcity  as  determined  for  himself  or 
by  the  exclusiveness  of  the  owners  of  his  pictures. 
It  requires,  however,  but  two  or  three  of  them  to 
convince  one  that  Twachtman  has  a  something 
"plus"  to  contribute  to  his  excursions  into  impres 
sionism.  One  feels  that  after  a  Duesseldorf  black 
ness  which  permeates  his  earlier  work  his  conversion 
to  impressionism  was  as  fortunate  as  it  was  sincere. 
Twachtman  knew,  as  is  evidenced  everywhere  in  his 
work,  what  he  wished  to  essay  and  he  proceeded  with 
poetic  reticence  to  give  it  forth.  With  a  lyricism 
that  is  as  convincing  as  it  is  authentic,  you  feel  that 

74 


OUR  IMPRESSIONISTS 

there  is  a  certain  underlying  spirit  of  resignation. 
He  surely  knew  that  a  love  of  sunlight  would  save 
any  man  from  pondering  on  the  inflated  importance 
of  world  issues. 

Having  seen  Twachtman  but  once  my  memory  of 
his  face  recalls  this  admixture  of  emotion.  He  cared 
too  much  for  the  essential  beauties  to  involve  them 
with  analyses  extraneous  to  the  meaning  of  beauty. 
That  the  Japanese  did  more  for  him  than  any  other 
Orientals  of  whom  he  might  have  been  thinking,  is 
evident.  For  all  that,  his  own  personal  lyricism 
surmounts  his  interest  in  outer  interpretations  of 
light  and  movement,  and  he  leaves  you  with  his  own 
notion  of  a  private  and  distinguished  appreciation  of 
nature.  In  this  sense  he  leads  one  to  Renoir's  way 
of  considering  nature  which  was  the  pleasure  in 
nature  for  itself.  It  was  all  too  fine  an  adventure 
to  quibble  about. 

Twachtman's  natural  reticence  and,  I  could  also 
believe,  natural  skepticism  kept  him  from  swinging 
wildly  over  to  the  then  new  theories,  a  gesture  typical 
of  less  intelligent  natures.  He  had  the  good  sense 
to  feel  out  for  himself  just  where  the  new  theories 
related  to  himself  and  set  about  producing  flat  sim 
plicity  of  planes  of  color  to  produce  a  very  dis 
tinguished  notion  of  light.  He  dispensed  with  the 
photographic  attitude  toward  objectivity  and  yet  at 
the  same  time  held  to  the  pleasing  rhythmical  shapes 
in  nature.  He  did  not  resort  to  divisionalism  or  to 
ultra-violence  of  relationship.  The  pictures  that  I 

75 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

have  seen  such  as  "February",  for  instance,  in  the 
Boston  Museum,  present  for  me  the  sensation  of  a 
man  of  great  private  spiritual  and  intellectual  means, 
having  the  wish  to  express  tactfully  and  convincingly 
his  personal  conclusions  and  reactions,  leaning  al 
ways  toward  the  side  of  iridescent  illusiveness  rather 
than  emotional  blatancy  and  irrelevant  extravagance. 
His  nuances  are  perhaps  too  finely  adjusted  to  give 
forth  the  sense  of  overwhelming  magic  either  in  in 
tention  or  of  execution.  It  is  lyrical  idea  with 
Twachtman  with  seldom  or  never  a  dramatic  gesture. 
He  is  as  illusive  as  a  phrase  of  Mallarme  and  it  will 
be  remembered  that  he  is  of  the  period  more  or  less 
of  the  rose  and  the  lily  and  the  lost  idea  in  poetry. 
He  does  recall  in  essence  at  least  the  quality  of 
pastels  in  prose,  though  the  art  intention  is  a  sturdier 
one.  It  is  enough  that  Twachtman  did  find  his  rela 
tionship  to  impressionism,  and  that  he  did  not  evolve 
a  system  of  repetition  which  marks  the  failure  of  all 
influence. 

Twachtman  remains  an  artist  of  super-fine  sensi 
bility  and  distinction,  and  whatever  he  may  have 
poured  into  the  ears  of  students  as  an  instructor  left 
no  visible  haggard  traces  on  his  own  production 
other  than  perhaps  limiting  that  production.  But 
we  know  that  while  the  quality  is  valuable  in  respect 
of  power  it  has  no  other  precise  value.  We  remem 
ber  that  Giorgione  perished  likewise  with  an  uncer 
tain  product  to  his  credit,  as  to  numbers,  but  he  did 
leave  his  immemorial  impression.  So  it  is  with  John 


OUR  IMPRESSIONISTS 

H.  Twachtman.  He  leaves  his  indelible  influence 
among  Americans  as  a  fine  artist,  and  he  may  be  said 
to  be  among  the  few  artists  who,  having  taken  up  the 
impressionistic  principle,  found  a  way  to  express  his 
personal  ideas  with  a  true  degree  of  personal  force. 
He  is  a  beautifully  sincere  product  and  that  is  going 
far.  Those  pictures  I  have  seen  contain  no  taint 
of  the  market  or  clamoring  for  praise  even.  They 
were  done  because  their  author  had  an  unobtrusive 
yet  very  aristocratic  word  to  say,  and  the  word  was 
spoken  with  authority.  John  H.  Twachtman  must 
be  counted  as  one  of  the  genuine  American  artists, 
as  well  as  among  the  most  genuine  artists  of  the 
world.  If  his  pictures  do  not  torment  one  with  prob 
lematic  intellectualism,  they  do  hold  one  with  their 
inherent  refinement  of  taste  and  a  degree  of  aristo 
cratic  approach  which  his  true  intelligence  implies. 

With  the  work  of  Theodore  Robinson,  there 
comes  a  wide  divergence  of  feeling  that  is  perhaps 
a  greater  comprehension  of  the  principles  of  im 
pressionism  as  applied  to  the  realities  involved  in 
the  academic  principle.  One  is  reminded  of  Bastien 
Le  Page  and  Leon  L'Hermitte,  in  the  paintings  of 
Robinson,  as  to  their  type  of  subject  and  the  concep 
tion  of  them  also.  That  he  lived  not  far  from  Giver- 
ney  is  likewise  evident.  Being  of  New  England 
yankee  extraction,  a  Vermonter  I  believe,  he  must 
have  essayed  always  a  sense  of  economy  in  emotion. 
No  one  could  have  gone  so  far  as  the  then  incredible 
Monet,  whose  pictures  wear  us  to  indifference  with 

77 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

vapid  and  unprofitable  thinking.  What  Monet  did 
was  to  encourage  a  new  type  of  audacity  and  a  brand- 
new  type  in  truth,  when  no  one  had  up  to  then 
attempted  to  see  nature  as  prismatical  under  the 
direct  influence  of  the  solar  rays.  All  this  has  since 
been  worked  out  with  greater  exactitude  by  the 
later  theorists  in  modernism. 

While  Van  Gogh  was  slowly  perishing  of  a  mad 
ecstasy  for  light,  covering  up  a  natural  Dutch  realism 
with  fierce  attempts  at  prismatic  relationship,  always 
with  the  rhythms  in  a  state  of  ecstatic  ascendency; 
and  Seurat  had  come  upon  the  more  satisfying  poin- 
tillism  as  developed  by  himself;  somewhere  in  amid 
all  these  extravagances  men  like  Robinson  were  try 
ing  to  combine  orthodoxy  of  heritage  and  radicalist 
conversion  with  the  new  and  very  noble  idea  of  im 
pressionism.  That  Robinson  succeeded  in  a  not 
startling  but  nevertheless  honorable  and  respectable 
fashion,  must  be  conceded  him.  I  sometimes  think 
that  Vignon,  a  seemingly  obscure  associate  of  the 
impressionists,  with  a  similar  impassioned  feeling  of 
realism,  outdid  him  and  approached  closer  to  the 
principles  as  understood  by  Pissarro :  probably  bet 
ter  by  a  great  deal  than  Monet  himself,  who  is  ac 
credited  with  the  honor  of  setting  the  theme  moving 
in  a  modern  line  of  that  day.  And  Pissarro  must 
have  been  a  man  to  have  so  impressed  all  the  men 
young  and  old  of  his  time.  After  seeing  a  great 
number  of  Monet's  one  turns  to  any  simple  Pissarro 
for  relief.  And  then  there  was  also  Sisley. 

78 


OUR  IMPRESSIONISTS 

But  the  talk  is  of  Theodore  Robinson.  He  holds 
his  place  as  a  realist  with  hardly  more  than  a  realist's 
conception,  subjoined  to  a  really  pleasing  apprecia 
tion  of  the  principles  of  impressionism  as  imbibed  by 
him  from  the  source  direct.  Here  are,  then,  the  two 
true  American  impressionists,  who,  as  far  as  I  am 
aware,  never  slipped  into  the  banalities  of  reiteration 
and  marketable  self-copy.  They  seem  to  have  far 
more  interest  in  private  intellectual  success  than  in  a 
practical  public  one.  It  is  this  which  helped  them 
both,  as  it  helps  all  serious  artists,  to  keep  their  ideas 
clean  of  outward  taint.  This  is  one  of  the  most  im 
portant  factors,  which  gives  a  man  a  place  in  the  art 
he  essays  to  achieve.  When  the  day  of  his  work 
is  at  an  end  it  will  be  seen  by  everyone  precisely  what 
the  influences  were  that  prompted  his  effort  toward 
deliverance  through  creation.  It  is  for  the  sake  of 
this  alone  that  sincere  artists  keep  to  certain  prin 
ciples,  and  with  genuine  sacrifice  often,  as  was  cer 
tainly  the  case  with  Twachtman.  And  after  all,  how 
can  a  real  artist  be  concerned  as  to  just  how  salable 
his  product  is  to  be?  Certainly  not  while  he  is 
working,  if  he  be  decent  toward  himself.  This  is  of 
course  heresy,  with  Wall  Street  so  near. 


79 


ARTHUR  B.  DAVIES 

IF  Arthur  B.  Davies  had  found  it  necessary,  as  in 
the  modern  time  it  has  been  found  necessary  to 
separate  literature  from  painting,  we  should  doubt 
less  have  had  a  very  delicate  and  sensitive  lyric 
poetry  in  book  form.  Titles  for  pictures  like  "Mir 
rored  Dreaming,"  "Sicily-Flowering  Isle,"  "Shell  of 
Gold,"  "A  Portal  of  the  Night,"  "Mystic  Dalli 
ance,"  are  all  of  them  creations  of  an  essentially 
poetic  and  literary  mind.  They  are  all  splendid 
titles  for  a  real  book  of  legendary  experience.  The 
poet  will  be  first  to  feel  the  accuracy  of  lyrical  emo 
tion  in  these  titles.  The  paintings  lead  one  away 
entirely  into  the  land  of  legend,  into  the  iridescent 
splendor  of  reflection.  They  take  one  out  of  a 
world  of  didactic  monotone,  as  to  their  artistic  sig 
nificance.  They  are  essentially  pictures  created  for 
the  purpose  of  transportation. 

From  the  earlier  days  in  that  underground  gallery 
on  Fifth  Avenue  near  Twenty-seventh  Street  to  the 
present  time,  there  has  been  a  constantly  flowing 
production  of  lyrical  simplicity  and  purification. 
One  can  never  think  of  Davies  as  one  thinks  of  Cour- 
bet  and  of  Cezanne,  where  the  intention  is  first  and 
last  a  technically  esthetic  one;  especially  in  Cezanne, 
whose  object  was  the  removal  of  all  significance  from 

80 


ARTHUR  B.  DAVIES 

painting  other  than  that  of  painting  for  itself.  With 
Cezanne  it  was  problem.  One  might  even  say  it 
was  the  removal  of  personality.  With  Davies  you 
are  aware  that  it  is  an  entirely  intimate  personal  life 
he  is  presenting;  a  life  entirely  away  from  discussion, 
from  all  sense  of  problem;  they  are  not  problematic 
at  all,  his  pictures;  they  have  lyrical  serenity  as  a 
basis,  chiefly.  Often  you  have  the  sensation  of 
looking  through  a  Renaissance  window  upon  a  Greek 
world — a  world  of  Platonic  verities  in  calm  relation 
with  each  other.  It  is  essentially  an  art  created  from 
the  principle  of  the  harmonic  law  in  nature,  things  in 
juxtaposition,  cooperating  with  the  sole  idea  of  a 
poetic  existence.  The  titles  cover  the  subjects,  as  I 
have  suggested.  Arthur  B.  Davies  is  a  lyric  poet 
with  a  decidedly  Celtic  tendency.  It  is  the  smile  of 
a  radiant  twilight  in  his  brain.  It  is  a  country  of 
green  moon  whispers  and  of  shadowed  movement. 
Imagination  illuminating  the  moment  of  fancy  with 
rhythmic  persuasiveness.  It  is  the  Pandaean  mys 
tery  unfolded  with  symphonic  accompaniment.  You 
have  in  these  pictures  the  romances  of  the,  human 
mind  made  irresistible  with  melodic  certainty.  They 
are  chansons  sans  paroles,  sung  to  the  syrinx  in 
Sicilian  glades. 

I  feel  that  it  is  our  own  romantic  land  transposed 
into  terms  of  classical  metre.  The  color  is  mostly 
Greek,  and  the  line  is  Greek.  You  could  just  as 
well  hear  Gliick  as  Keats ;  you  could  just  as  well  see 
the  world  by  the  light  of  the  virgin  lamp,  and  watch 

81 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

the  smoke  of  old  altars  coiling  among  the  cypress 
boughs.  The  redwoods  of  the  West  become  columns 
of  Doric  eloquence  and  simplicity.  The  mountains 
and  lakes  of  the  West  have  become  settings  for  the 
reading  of  the  "Centaur"  of  Maurice  de  Guerin. 
You  see  the  reason  for  the  titles  chosen  because  you 
feel  that  the  poetry  of  line  and  the  harmonic  accom 
paniment  of  color  is  the  primal  essential.  They  are 
not  so  dynamic  as  suggestive  in  their  quality  of 
finality.  The  way  is  left  open,  in  other  words,  for 
you  yourself  to  wander,  if  you  will,  and  possess  the 
requisite  instincts  for  poetry. 

The  presence  of  Arthur  B.  Davies,  and  conversa 
tion  with  him  convince  one  that  poetry  and  art  are 
in  no  sense  a  diversion  or  a  delusion  even.  They 
are  an  occupation,  a  real  business  for  intelligent 
men  and  women.  He  is  occupied  with  the  essential 
qualities  of  poetry  and  painting.  He  is  eclectic  by 
instinct.  Spiritually  he  arrives  at  his  conviction 
through  these  unquestionable  states  of  lyrical  exist 
ence.  He  is  there  when  they  happen.  That  is  au 
thenticity  sufficient.  They  are  not  wandering  moods. 
They  are  organized  conditions  and  attitudes,  intel 
lectually  appreciated  and  understood.  He  is  a  mys 
tic  only  in  the  sense  that  perhaps  all  lyrical  poetry  is 
mystic,  since  it  strives  for  union  with  the  universal 
soul  in  things. 

It  is  perfectly  autobiographical,  the  work  of  Ar 
thur  B.  Davies,  and  that  is  so  with  all  genuine  ex 
pression.  You  find  this  gift  for  conviction  in  power- 

82 


ARTHUR  B.  DAVIES 

ful  painter  types,  like  Courbet  and  Delacroix,  who 
are  almost  propagandic  in  their  fiercely  defined  in 
sistence  upon  the  chosen  esthetic  principle.  What 
ever  emanation,  illusion,  or  "aura,"  dreadful  word 
that  it  is,  springing  from  the  work  of  Davies,  is 
only  typical  of  what  comes  from  all  magical  inten 
tions,  the  magic  of  the  world  of  not-being,  made  real 
through  the  operation  of  true  fancy.  Davies'  pic 
tures  are  works  of  fancy,  then,  in  contradistinction 
to  the  essays  of  the  imagination  such  as  those  of 
William  Blake.  Poets  like  Davies  are  lookers-in. 
Poets  like  Blake  are  the  austere  residents  of  the 
country  they  wander  in.  The  lookers-in  are  no  less 
genuine.  They  merely  "make"  their  world.  It 
might  be  said  they  make  the  prosaic  world  over 
again,  transform  it  by  a  system  of  prescribed  magic. 
This  work,  then,  becomes  states  of  fancy  dramatized 
in  lyric  metre.  Davies  feels  the  visionary  life  of 
facts  as  a  scientist  would  feel  them  actually.  He  has 
the  wish  for  absolute  order  and  consistency.  There 
is  nothing  vague  or  disconcerting  in  his  work,  no 
lapses  of  rhetoric.  It  is,  in  its  way,  complete,  one 
may  say,  since  it  is  the  intelligently  contrived  pur 
pose  of  this  poet  to  arrive  at  a  scheme  of  absolute 
spiritual  harmony. 

He  is  first  of  all  the  poet-painter  in  the  sense  that, 
Albert  Ryder  is  a  painter  for  those  with  a  fine  com 
prehension  of  the  imagination.     Precisely  as  Redon 
is  an  artist  for  artists,  though  not  always  their  artist 
in  convincing  esthetics,  he  too,  satisfies  the  instinct 

83 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

for  legend,  for  transformation.  Painters  like  Da- 
vies,  Redon,  Rops,  Moreau,  and  the  other  mystical 
» natures,  give  us  rather  the  spiritual  trend  of  their 
own  lives.  In  Redon  and  in  Davies  the  vision  is  un 
touched  by  the  foul  breath  of  the  world  around  them. 
In  Rops  and  Moreau  you  feel  the  imagination  hurry 
ing  to  the  arms  and  breasts  of  vice  for  their  sense  of 
home.  The  pathos  of  deliverance  is  urgent  in  them. 
In  the  work  of  Davies,  and  of  Redon,  there  is  the 
splendid  silence  of  a  world  created  by  themselves,  a 
world  for  the  reflection  of  self.  There  is  even  a  kind 
of  narcissian  arrogance,  the  enchantment  of  the  illu 
mined  fact. 

Beauty  recognizing  herself  with  satisfaction — that 
seems  to  be  the  purpose  of  the  work  of  Arthur  B. 
Davies.  It  is  so  much  outside  the  realm  of  scientific 
esthetics  as  hardly  to  have  been  more  than  over 
heard.  These  pictures  are  efficiently  exemplary  of 
the  axiom  that  "all  art  aspires  to  the  condition  of 
music."  I  could  almost  hear  Davies  saying  that,  as 
if  Pater  had  never  so  much  as  thought  of  it.  They 
literally  soothe  with  a  rare  poetry  painted  for  the 
eye.  They  are  illuminations  for  the  manuscripts  of 
the  ascetic  soul.  They  are  windows  for  houses  in 
which  men  and  women  may  withdraw,  and  be  recon 
ciled  to  the  doom  of  isolation. 

With  the  arrival  of  Cubism  into  the  modern  es 
thetic  scene,  there  appeared  a  change  in  the  manner 
of  creation,  though  the  same  methods  of  invention 
remained  chiefly  without  change.  The  result  seems 

84 


ARTHUR  B.  DA  VIES 

more  in  the  nature  of  kaleidoscopic  variance,  a  per 
haps  more  acutely  realized  sense  of  opposites,  than 
in  the  former  mode.  They  register  less  completely, 
it  seems  to  me,  because  the  departure  is  too  sudden 
in  the  rhythmus  of  the  artist.  The  art  of  Davies 
is  the  art  of  a  melodious  curved  line.  Therefore  the 
sudden  angularity  is  abrupt  to  an  appreciative  eye. 

It  is  the  poetry  of  Arthur  B.  Davies  that  comes 
to  the  fore  in  one's  appreciation.  He  has  the  almost 
impeccable  gift  for  lyrical  truth,  and  the  music  of 
motion  is  crystallized  in  his  imagination  to  a  master 
ful  degree.  He  is  the  highly  sensitized  illustrator 
appointed  by  the  states  of  his  soul  to  picture  forth 
the  pauses  of  the  journey  through  the  realm  of 
fancy.  It  has  in  it  the  passion  of  violet  and  silver 
dreaming,  the  hue  of  an  endless  dawn  before  the  day 
descends  upon  the  world.  You  expect  the  lute  to 
regain  its  jaded  tune  there.  You  expect  the  harp  to 
reverberate  once  again  with  the  old  fervors.  You 
expect  the  syrinx  to  unfold  the  story  of  the  reed  in 
light  song.  It  contains  the  history  of  all  the  hushed 
horizons  that  can  be  found  over  the  edges  of  a  world 
of  materiality.  It  holds  in  it  always  the  warm  soul 
of  every  digit  of  the  moon.  Human  passion  is  for 
once  removed,  unless  it  be  that  the  mere  humanism 
of  motion  excites  the  sense  of  passion.  You  are 
made  to  feel  the  non-essentiality  of  the  stress  of  the 
flesh  in  the  true  places  of  spiritual  existence.  The 
life  of  moments  is  carried  over  and  made  permanent 
in  fancy,  and  they  endure  by  the  purity  of  their 

85 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

presence  alone.  There  is  no  violence  in  the  work  of 
v  Davies.  It  is  the  appreciable  relation  of  harmony 
and  counterpoint  in  the  human  heart  and  mind.  It  is 
the  logic  of  rhythmical  equation  felt  there,  almost 
exclusively.  It  is  the  condition  of  music  that  art 
in  the  lyrical  state  has  seemed  to  suggest. 

The  artistic  versatility  of  Davies  is  too  familiar 
to  comment  upon.  He  has  no  distress  with  mediums. 
His  exceptional  sensitivity  to  substance  and  texture 
gives  him  the  requisite  rapport  with  all  species  of 
mediums  to  which  the  artist  has  access.  One  might 
be  inclined  to  think  of  him  as  a  virtuoso  in  pastel 
possibly,  and  his  paintings  in  the  medium  of  oil  sug 
gest  this  sort  of  richness.  He  is  nevertheless  at 
home  in  all  ways.  All  these  are  issues  waved  away 
to  my  mind,  in  view  of  his  acute  leaning  to  the  poet 
that  leads  the  artist  away  from  problems  other  than 
that  of  Greek  rhythmical  perfection.  It  is  essen 
tially  a  Platonic  expression,  the  desire  of  the  perfect 
union  of  one  thing  with  another.  That  is  its  final 
consummation,  so  it  seems  to  me. 


86 


REX  SLINKARD 

"I  doubt  not  that  the  passionately  wept  deaths  of  young  men 
are  provided  for." — WALT  WHITMAN. 

WE  have  had  our  time  for  regretting  the  loss  of 
men  of  genius  during  the  war.  We  know  the  sig 
nificance  of  the  names  of  Rupert  Brooke,  Edward 
Thomas,  Elroy  Flecker  on  the  other  side  of  the  sea, 
to  the  hope  of  England.  And  on  this  side  of  the 
sea  the  names  of  Joyce  Kilmer,  Alan  Seeger  and 
Victor  Chapman  have  been  called  out  to  us  for  the 
poetic  spell  they  cast  upon  America.  All  of  them 
in  their  manful,  poetic  way.  They  were  all  of  them 
poets  in  words;  all  but  Victor  Chapman  were  pro 
fessional  poets,  and  he,  even  if  he  himself  was  not 
aware,  gave  us  some  rare  bits  of  loveliness  in  his 
letters.  There  are  others  almost  nameless  among 
soldier-hero  people  who  gave  us  likewise  real  bits  of 
unsuspected  beauty  in  their  unpretentious  letters. 

Rex  Slinkard  was  a  soldier,  poet-painter  by  in 
clination,  and  ranchman  as  to  specific  occupation. 
Rex  has  gone  from  us,  too.  How  many  are  there 
who  know,  or  could  have  known,  the  magic  of  this 
unassuming  visionary  person.  Only  a  few  of  us 
who  understand  the  meaning  of  magic  and  the  mean 
ing  of  everlasting  silences.  It  is  the  fortune  of 
America  that  there  remain  with  us  numbers  of  highly 

8? 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

indicative  drawings  and  a  group  of  rare  canvases, 
the  quality  of  which  painters  will  at  once  acclaim, 
and  poets  will  at  once  verify  the  lyric  perfection  of, 
paintings  and  drawings  among  the  loveliest  we  have 
in  point  of  purity  of  conception  and  feeling  for  the 
subtle  shades  of  existence,  those  rare  states  of  life 
which,  when  they  arrive,  are  called  perfect  moments 
in  the  poetic  experience  of  men  and  women. 

There  will  be  no  argument  to  offer  or  to  maintain 
regarding  the  work  of  Rex  Slinkard.  It  is  what  it  is, 
the  perfect  evidence  that  one  of  the  finest  lyric  talents 
to  be  found  among  the  young  creators  of  America 
has  been  deprived  of  its  chance  to  bloom  as  it  would 
like  to  have  done,  as  it  so  eagerly  and  surely  was 
already  doing.  Rex  Slinkard  was  a  genius  of  first 
quality.  Tl\e  word  genius  may  be  used  these  days 
without  fear  of  the  little  banalities,  since  anyone  who 
has  evolved  for  himself  a  clear  vision  of  life  may  be 
said  to  possess  the  quality  of  genius. 

"The  day's  work  done  and  the  supper  past.  I 
walk  through  the  horse-lot  and  to  my  shack.  In 
side  I  light  the  lantern,  and  then  the  fire,  and  sitting, 
I  think  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth,  and  of  the 
world,  my  home." 

These  sentences,  out  of  a  letter  to  a  near  friend, 
and  the  marginalia  written  upon  the  edges  of  many 
of  his  drawings,  show  the  varying  degrees  of  deli 
cacy  Rex  was  eager  to  register  and  make  permanent 
for  his  own  realization.  His  thought  was  once  and 
for  all  upon  the  realities,  that  is,  those  substances 

88 


REX  SLINKARD 

that  are  or  can  be  realities  only  to  the  artist,  the  poet, 
and  the  true  dreamer,  and  Rex  Slinkard  was  all  of 
these.  His  observation  of  himself,  and  his  under 
standing  of  himself,  were  uncommonly  genuine  in 
this  young  and  so  poetic  painter.  He  had  learned 
early  for  so  young  a  man  what  were  his  special  ideal 
istic  fervors.  He  had  the  true  romanticist's  gift  for 
refinements,  and  was  working  continually  toward 
the  rarer  states  of  being  out  from  the  emotional  into 
the  intellectual,  through  spiritual  application  into  the 
proper  and  requisite  calm.  He  lived  in  a  thoroughly 
ordered  world  of  specified  experience  which  is  typi 
fied  in  his  predilection  for  the  superiority  of  Chinese 
notions  of  beauty  over  the  more  sentimental  rhythms 
of  the  Greeks.  He  had  found  the  proper  shade  of 
intellectuality  he  cared  for  in  this  type  of  Oriental 
expression.  It  was  the  Buddhistic  feeling  of  reality 
that  gave  him  more  than  the  platonic.  He  was  search 
ing  for  a  majesty  beyond  sensuousness,  by  which 
sensuous  experience  is  transformed  into  greater  and 
more  enduring  shades  of  beauty.  He  wanted  the 
very  life  of  beauty  to  take  the  place  of  sensuous  sug 
gestion.  Realities  in  place  of  semblances,  then,  he 
was  eager  for,  but  the  true  visionary  realities  as  far 
finer  than  the  materialistic  reality. 

He  had  learned  early  that  he  was  not,  and  never 
would  be,  the  fantasist  that  some  of  his  earlier  can 
vases  indicate.  Even  his  essays  in  portraiture,  verg 
ing  on  the  realistic,  leaned  nevertheless  more  toward 
the  imaginative  reality  always.  He  knew,  also,  with 

89 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

clarity,  the  fine  line  of  decision  between  imagination 
and  vision,  between  the  dramatic  and  the  lyric,  and 
had  realized  completely  the  supremacy  of  the  lyric 
in  himself.  He  was  a  young  boy  of  light  walking 
on  a  man's  strong  feet  upon  real  earth  over  which 
there  was  no  shadow  for  him.  He  walked  straight 
forwardly  toward  the  elysium  of  his  own  very  per 
sonal  organized  fancies.  His  irrigation  ditches  were 
"young  rivers"  for  him,  rivers  of  being,  across  which 
white  youths  upon  white  horses,  and  white  fawns 
were  gliding  to  the  measure  of  their  own  delights. 
He  had,  this  young  boy  of  light,  the  perfect  measure 
of  poetic  accuracy  coupled  with  a  man's  fine  sim 
plicity  in  him.  He  had  the  priceless  calm  for  the  un 
derstanding  of  his  own  poetic  ecstasies.  They  acted 
upon  him  gently  with  their  own  bright  pressure.  He 
let  them  thrive  according  to  their  own  relationships 
to  himself.  Nothing  was  forced  in  the  mind  and  soul 
of  Rex  Slinkard.  He  was  in  quest  of  the  modern 
rapture  for  permanent  things  such  as  is  to  be  found 
in  "L'apres  midi  d'un  Faun"  of  Mallarme  and  De 
bussy  for  instance,  in  quest  of  those  rare,  whiter  pro 
portions  of  experience.  It  was  radiance  and  sim 
plicity  immingled  in  his  sense  of  things. 

He  would  have  served  his  country  well  as  one  of 
its  clearest  and  best  citizens,  far  more  impressively 
by  the  growth  and  expansion  of  his  soul  in  his  own 
manly  vision,  than  by  the  questionable  value  of  his 
labors  in  the  military  service.  He  did  what  he  could, 
gladly  and  heroically,  but  he  had  become  too  weak- 

90 


REX  SLINKARD 

ened  by  the  siege  of  physical  reverses  that  pursued 
his  otherwise  strong  body  to  endure  the  strain  of 
labor  he  performed,  or  wanted  to  accomplish.  He 
knew  long  before  he  entered  service  the  significance 
of  discipline  from  very  profound  experience  with 
life  from  childhood  onward.  Life  had  come  to  him 
voluminously  because  he  was  one  who  attracted  life 
to  him,  electrically.  He  did  not  uwhine"  or  "post 
pone,"  for  he  was  in  all  of  his  hours  at  least  mentally 
and  spiritually  equal  to  the  world  in  all  of  its  aspects. 
He  was  physically  not  there  for  the  thing  he  volun 
teered  to  do,  despite  the  appearance  of  manly 
strength  in  him,  or  thought  he  would  be  able  to  do. 
He  hoped  strongly  to  serve.  None  knew  his  secret 
so  well  as  himself,  and  he  kept  his  own  secret  royally 
and  amicably. 

Exceptional  maturity  of  understanding  of  life,  of 
nature,  and  all  the  little  mysteries  that  are  the  shape 
of  human  moments,  was  conspicuously  evidenced  for 
as  long  as  his  intimates  remember.  The  extraordi 
nary  measure  of  calm  contained  in  his  last  pictures 
and  in  so  many  of  the  drawings  done  in  moments 
of  rest  in  camp  is  evidence  of  all  this.  He  had  a 
boy's  brightness  and  certainty  of  the  fairness  of 
things,  joined  with  a  man's  mastery  of  the  simple 
problem.  He  was  a  true  executive  in  material  affairs 
and  his  vision  was  another  part  of  the  business  of 
existence. 

As  I  have  said,  Rex  Slinkard  had  the  priceless 
poise  of  the  true  lyric  poet,  and  it  was  the  ordered 

91 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

system  in  his  vision  that  proved  him.  He  knew 
the  value  of  his  attitudes  and  he  was  certain  that 
perfection  is  imperishable,  and  strove  with  a  poet's 
calm  intensity  toward  that.  He  had  found  his 
Egypt,  his  Assyria,  his  Greece,  and  his  own  specific 
Nirvana  at  his  feet  everywhere. 

As  he  stood  attending  to  the  duties  of  irrigation 
and  the  ripening  of  the  alfalfa  crops,  he  spent  the 
moments  otherwise  lost  in  carving  pebbles  he  found 
about  him  with  rare  gestures  and  profiles,  either  of 
his  own  face  or  body  which  he  knew  well,  or  the 
grace  of  other  bodies  and  faces  he  had  seen.  He 
was  always  the  young  eye  on  things,  an  avid  eye  sure 
of  the  wonder  about  to  escape  from  every  living 
thing  where  light  or  shadow  fell  upon  them  gently. 
He  was  a  sure,  unquestionable,  and  in  this  sense  a 
perfect  poet,  and  possessed  the  undeniable  painter's 
gift  for  presentation. 

He  was  of  the  company  of  Odilon  Redon,  of 
whom  he  had  never  heard,  in  his  feeling  for  the 
almost  occult  presence  emanating  from  everything 
he  encountered  everywhere,  and  his  simple  letters 
to  his  friends  hold  touches  of  the  same  beauty  his 
drawings  and  paintings  and  carvings  on  pebbles 
contain. 

A  born  mystic  and  visionary  as  to  the  state  of  his 
soul,  a  boy  of  light  in  quest  of  the  real  wisdom 
that  is  necessary  for  the  lyrical  embodiment,  this 
was  Rex  Slinkard,  the  western  ranchman  and  poet- 
painter.  "I  think  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth 

92 


REX  SLINKARD 

and  of  the  world,  my  home."  This  might  have  been 
a  marginal  note  from  the  Book  of  Thel,  or  it  might 
have  been  a  line  from  some  new  songs  of  innocence 
and  experience.  It  might  have  been  spoken  from 
out  of  one  of  the  oaks  of  William  Blake.  It  must 
have  been  heard  from  among  the  live  oaks  of  Saugus. 
It  was  the  simple  speech  of  a  ranchman  of  Cali 
fornia,  a  real  boy-man  who  loved  everything  with  a 
poet's  love  because  everything  that  lived,  lived  for 
him. 

Such  were  the  qualities  of  Rex  Slinkard,  who 
would  like  to  have  remained  in  the  presence  of  his 
friends,  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth,  to  have  lived 
long  in  the  world,  his  home. 

It  is  all  a  fine  clear  testimony  to  the  certainty  of 
youth,  perhaps  the  only  certainty  there  can  be.  He 
was  the  calm  declaimer  of  the  life  of  everlasting 
beauty.  He  saw  with  a  glad  eye  the  "something" 
that  is  everywhere  at  all  times,  and  in  all  places,  for 
the  poet's  and  the  visionary's  eye  at  least.  He  was 
sure  of  what  he  saw;  his  paintings  and  drawings  are 
a  firm  conviction  of  that.  Like  all  who  express 
themselves  clearly,  he  wanted  to  say  all  he  had  to 
say.  At  thirty  he  had  achieved  expression  remark 
ably.  He  had  found  the  way  out,  and  the  way  out 
was  toward  and  into  the  light.  He  was  clear,  and 
entirely  unshadowed. 

This  is  Rex  Slinkard,  ranchman,  poet-painter,  and 
man  of  the  living  world.  Since  he  could  not  remain, 
he  has  left  us  a  carte  visite  of  rarest  clarity  and 

93 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

beauty.  We  who  care,  among  the  few,  for  things 
in  relation  to  essences,  are  glad  Rex  Slinkard  lived 
and  laughed  and  wondered,  and  remained  the  little 
while.  The  new  silence  is  but  a  phase  of  the  same 
living  one  he  covered  all  things  with.  He  was  glad 
he  was  here.  He  was  another  angle  of  light  on  the 
poetic  world  around  us,  another  unsuspected  facet 
of  the  bright  surface  of  the  world.  Surfaces  were 
for  him,  too,  something  to  be  "deepened"  with  a 
fresh  vividness.  He  had  the  irresistible  impulse  to 
decorate  and  to  decorate  consistently.  His  sense  of 
decoration  was  fluid  and  had  no  hint  of  the  rhetorical 
in  it.  He  felt  everything  joined  together,  shape  to 
shape,  by  the  harmonic  insistence  in  life  and  in 
nature.  A  flower  held  a  face,  and  a  face  held  a 
flowery  substance  for  him.  Bodies  were  young  trees 
in  bloom,  and  trees  were  lines  of  human  loveliness. 
The  body  of  the  man,  the  body  of  the  woman,  beauti 
ful  male  and  female  bodies,  the  ideal  forms  of  every 
one  and  everything  he  encountered,  he  understood 
and  made  his  own.  They  were  all  living  radiances 
against  the  dropped  curtain  of  the  world.  He  loved 
the  light  on  flesh,  and  the  shadows  on  strong  arms, 
legs,  and  breasts.  He  avoided  theory,  either  philo 
sophic  or  esthetic.  He  had  traveled  through  the 
ages  of  culture  in  his  imagination,  and  was  convinced 
that  nothing  was  new  and  nothing  was  old.  It  was 
all  living  and  eternal  when  it  was  genuine.  He 
stepped  out  of  the  world  of  visible  realities  but 
seldom,  and  so  it  was,  books  and  methods  of  in- 

94 


REX  SLINKARD 

terpretation  held  little  for  him.  He  didn't  need 
them,  for  he  held  the  whole  world  in  his  arms 
through  the  power  of  dream  and  vision.  He  touched 
life  everywhere,  touched  it  with  himself. 

Rex  Slinkard  went  away  into  a  celestial  calm 
October  18,  1918,  in  St.  Vincent's  Hospital,  New 
York  City.  It  is  the  few  among  those  of  us  who 
knew  him  as  poet  and  visionary  and  man,  who  wish 
earnestly  that  Rex  might  have  remained.  He  gave 
much  that  many  wanted,  or  would  have  wanted  if 
they  had  had  the  opportunity  of  knowing  him.  The 
pictures  and  drawings  that  remain  are  the  testimony 
of  his  splendid  poetic  talents.  He  was  a  lyrical 
painter  of  the  first  order.  He  is  something  that  we 
miss  mightily,  and  shall  miss  for  long. 


95 


SOME  AMERICAN  WATER-COLORISTS 

WITH  the  arrival  of  Cezanne  into  the  field  of 
water-color  painting,  this  medium  suffers  a  new  and 
drastic  instance  for  comparison.  It  is  not  technical 
audacity  alone,  of  course,  that  confronts  us  in  these 
brilliantly  achieved  performances,  so  rich  in  form 
as  well  as  radiant  with  light.  It  is  not  the  kind  of 
virility  for  its  own  sake  that  is  typical  of  our  own 
American  artists  so  gifted  in  this  special  medium, 
like  Whistler,  Sargent,  Winslow  Homer,  Dodge 
Macknight,  John  Marin,  and  Charles  Demuth. 
With  Cezanne  it  was  merely  a  new  instrument  to 
employ  for  the  realization  of  finer  plastic  relations. 
The  medium  of  water-color  has  been  ably  employed 
by  the  English  and  the  Dutch  painters,  but  it  seems 
as  if  the  artists  of  both  these  countries  succeeded  in 
removing  all  the  brilliance  and  charm  as  well  as 
the  freshness  which  is  peculiar  to  it;  few  outside 
of  Cezanne  have,  I  think,  done  more  with  water- 
color  than  the  above  named  American  artists,  none 
who  have  kept  more  closely  and  consistently  within 
the  confines  and  peculiarities  of  this  medium. 

In  the  consideration  of  the  American  water-color 
artists  it  will  be  found  that  Sargent  and  Homer  tend 
always  toward  the  graphic  aspect  of  a  pictorial  idea, 
yet  it  is  Homer  who  relieves  his  pictures  of  this 


SOME  AMERICAN  WATER-COLORISTS 

obsession  by  a  brilliant  appreciation  of  the  medium 
for  its  own  sake.  Homer  steps  out  of  the  dry  con 
ventionalism  of  the  English  style  of  painting,  which 
Sargent  does  not  do.  Much  of  that  metallic  harsh 
ness  which  is  found  in  the  oil  pictures  of  Homer  is 
relieved  in  the  water-colors  and  there  is  added  to  this 
their  extreme  virtuosity,  and  a  great  distinction  to 
be  discovered  in  their  sense  of  light  and  life,  the 
sense  of  the  object  illumined  with  a  wealth  of 
vibrancy  that  is  peculiar  to  its  environment,  par 
ticularly  noticeable  in  the  Florida  series. 

Dodge  Macknight  has  seen  with  a  keen  eye  the 
importance  of  this  virility  of  technique  to  be  found 
in  Home,r,  and  has  added  to  this  a  passion  for  im 
pressionistic  veracity  which  heightens  his  own  work 
to  a  point  distinctly  above  that  of  Sargent,  and  one 
might  almost  say  above  Winslow  Homer.  Mack- 
night  really  did  authenticate  for  himself  the  efficacy 
of  impression  with  almost  incredible  feats  of  visual 
bravery.  There  is  no  array  of  pigment  sufficient  to 
satisfy  him  as  for  what  heat  and  cold  do  to  his  sensi 
bility,  as  experienced  by  the  opposite  poles  of  a  New 
England  winter  and  a  tropical  Mexican  landscape. 
He  is  always  in  search  of  the  highest  height  in  con 
trasts,  all  this  joined  by  what  his  sense  of  fierceness 
of  light  could  bring  to  the  fantastic  dune  stretches  of 
Cape  Cod  in  fiery  autumn.  His  work  in  water-color 
has  the  convincing  charm  of  almost  fanaticism  for 
itself;  and  we  find  this  medium  progressing  still 
further  with  the  fearlessness  of  John  Marin  in  the 

97 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

absolute  at-home-ness  which  he  displays  on  all  occa 
sions  in  his  audacious  water-color  pictures. 

Marin  brings  you  to  the  feeling  that  digression  is 
for  him  imperative  only  as  affording  him  relief  from 
the  tradition  of  his  medium.  John  Marin  employs 
all  the  restrictions  of  water-color  with  the  wisdom 
that  is  necessary  in  the  case.  He  says  that  paper 
plus  water,  plus  emotion  will  give  a  result  in  them 
selves  and  proceeds  with  the  idea  at  hand  in  what 
may  without  the  least  temerity  be  called  a  masterly 
fashion;  he  has  run  the  gamut  of  experience  with 
his  materials  from  the  earliest  Turner  tonalities, 
through  Whisterian  vagaries  on  to  American  definite- 
ness,  and  has  incidentally  noted  that  the  Chinese  have 
been  probably  the  only  supreme  masters  of  the  wash 
in  the  history  of  water-color  painting.  I  can  say  for 
myself  that  Marin  produces  the  liveliest,  handsomest 
wash  that  is  producible  or  that  has  ever  been  ap- 
complished  in  the  field  of  water-color  painting.  Per 
haps  many  of  the  pictures  of  John  Marin  were  not 
always  satisfying  in  the  tactile  sense  because  many 
of  them  are  taken  up  with  an  inevitable  passion  for 
technical  virtuosity,  which  is  no  mean  distinction  in 
itself  but  we  are  not  satisfied  as  once  we  were  with 
this  passion  for  audacity  and  virtuosity.  We  have 
learned  that  spatial  existence  and  spatial  relation 
ships  are  the  important  essentials  in  any  work  of 
art.  The  precise  ratio  of  thought  accompanied  by 
exactitude  of  emotion  for  the  given  idea  is  a  matter 
of  serious  consideration  with  the  modern  artists  of 


SOME  AMERICAN  WATER-COLORISTS 

today.    That  is  the  special  value  of  modern  painting 
to  the  development  of  art. 

The  Chinese  really  knew  just  what  a  wash  was 
capable  of,  and  confined  themselves  to  the  majesty 
of  the  limitations  at  hand.  John  Marin  has  been 
wise  in  this  also  though  he  is  not  precisely  fanatical, 
which  may  be  his  chief  defect,  and  it  is  probably 
true  that  the  greatest  experimenters  have  shown 
fanatical  tendency,  which  is  only  the  accentuated 
spirit  of  obsession  for  an  idea.  How  else  does  one 
hold  a  vision?  It  is  the  only  way  for  an  artist  to 
produce  plastic  exactitude  between  two  planes  of 
sensation  or  thought.  The  parts  must  be  as  perfect 
as  the  whole  and  in  the  best  art  this  is  so.  There 
must  be  the  sense  of  "existence"  everywhere  and  it 
might  even  be  said  that  the  cool  hue  of  the  intellect  is 
the  first  premise  in  a  true  work  of  art.  Virtuosity 
is  a  state  of  expression  but  it  is  not  the  final  state. 
One  must  search  for  as  well  as  find  the  sequential 
quality  which  is  necessitated  for  the  safe  arrival  of 
a  work  of  art  into  the  sphere  of  esthetic  existence. 

The  water-colors  of  John  Marin  are  restless  with 
energy,  which  is  in-  its  way  a  real  virtue.  They  do, 
I  think,  require,  at  times  at  least,  more  of  the  calm 
of  research  and  less  of  the  excitement  of  it.  All 
true  artistry  is  self-contained  and  never  relies  upon 
outer  physical  stimulus  or  inward  extravagance  of 
phantasy,  or  of  idiosyncrasy.  A  work  of  art  is  never  ^ 
peculiar,  it  is  always  a  natural  thing.  In  this  sense 

99 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

John  Marin  approaches  real  art  because  he  is  prob 
ably  the  most  natural  water-colorist  in  existence. 

With  Charles  Demuth  water-color  painting  steps 
up  into  the  true  condition  of  ideas  followed  by  ex 
perience.  He  has  joined  with  modernism  most  con 
sistently,  having  arrived  at  this  state  of  progression 
by  the  process  of  investigation.  The  tradition  of 
water-color  painting  takes  a  jump  into  the  new  field 
of  modernism,  and  Demuth  has  given  us  his  knowl 
edge  of  the  difference  between  illustration,  depiction, 
and  the  plastic  realization  of  fact.  Probably  no 
young  artist  has  accomplished  a  finer  degree  of  ar 
tistic  finesse  in  illustration  than  has  Charles  Demuth 
in  his  series  of  illustrations  for  "The  Two  Magics" 
of  Henry  James,  or  more  explicitly  to  say  "The 
Turn  of  the  Screw".  These  pictures  are  to  the  true 
observer  all  that  could  be  hoped  for  in  imaginative 
sincerity  as  well  as  in  technical  elusiveness.  Demuth 
has  since  that  time  stepped  out  of  the  confinement 
of  water-color  pure,  over  into  the  field  of  tempera, 
which  brings  it  nearer  to  the  sturdier  mediums  em 
ployed  in  the  making  of  pictures  evolving  a  greater 
severity  of  form  and  a  commendable  rigidity  of  line. 
He  has  learned  like  so  many  moderns  that  the  ruled 
line  offers  greater  advantages  in  pictorial  structure. 
You  shall  find  his  approach  to  the  spirit  of  Christo 
pher  Wren  is  as  clear  and  direct  as  his  feeling  for 
the  vastiness  of  New  England  speechlessness.  He 
has  come  up  beyond  the  dramatisation  of  emotion  to 
the  point  of  expression  for  its  own  sake.  But  he  is 

100 


SOME  AMERICAN  WATER-COLORISTS 

nevertheless  to  be  included  among  the  arrived  water- 
colorists,  because  his  gifts  for  expression  have  been 
evolved  almost  entirely  through  this  medium.  There 
is  then  a  fine  American  achievement  in  the  art  of 
water-color  painting  which  may  safely  be  called  at  I 
this  time  a  localized  tradition.  It  has  become  an 
American  realization. 


roi 


THE  APPEAL  OF  PHOTOGRAPHY 

PHOTOGRAPHY  is  an  undeniable  esthetic  problem 
upon  our  modern  artistic  horizon.  The  idea  of 
photography  as  an  art  has  been  discussed  no  doubt 
ever  since  the  invention  of  the  pinhole.  In  the  main, 
I  have  always  said  for  myself  that  the  kodak  offers 
me  the  best  substitute  for  the  picture  of  life,  that  I 
have  found.  I  find  the  snapshot,  almost  without  ex 
ception,  holding  my  interest  for  what  it  contains  of 
simple  registration  of  and  adherence  to  facts  for 
themselves.  I  have  had  a  very  definite  and  plausible 
aversion  to  the  "artistic"  photograph,  and  we 
have  had  more  than  a  surfeit  of  this  sort  of  pro 
duction  for  the  past  ten  or  fifteen  years.  I  have  re 
ferred  frequently  in  my  mind  to  the  convincing  por 
traits  by  David  Octavius  Hill  as  being  among  the 
first  examples  of  photographic  portraiture  to  hold 
my  own  private  interest  as  clear  and  unmanipulated 
expressions  of  reality;  and  it  is  a  definite  as  well  as 
irresistible  quality  that  pervades  these  mechanical 
productions,  the  charm  of  the  object  for  its  own  sake. 

It  was  the  irrelevant  "artistic"  period  in  pho 
tography  that  did  so  much  to  destroy  the  vital  sig 
nificance  of  photography  as  a  type  of  expression 
which  may  be  classed  as  among  the  real  arts  of  to 
day.  And  it  was  a  movement  that  failed  because  it 

102 


THE  APPEAL  OF  PHOTOGRAPHY 

added  nothing  to  the  idea  save  a  distressing  super 
ficiality.  It  introduced  a  fog  on  the  brain,  that  was 
as  senseless  as  it  was  embarrassing  to  the  eye  caring 
intensely  for  precision  of  form  and  accuracy  of 
presentation.  Photography  was  in  this  sense  un 
fortunate  in  that  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  adepts  at 
the  brush  who  sought  to  introduce  technical  varia 
tions  which  had  nothing  in  reality  to  do  with  it  and 
with  which  it  never  could  have  anything  in  common. 
All  this  sort  of  thing  was  produced  in  the  age  of  the 
famous  men  and  women,  the  period  of  eighteen 
ninety-five  to  nineteen  hundred  and  ten  say,  for  it 
was  the  age  when  the  smart  young  photographer 
was  frantic  to  produce  famous  sitters  like  Shaw  and 
Rodin.  We  do  not  care  anything  about  such  things 
in  our  time  because  we  now  know  that  anybody  well 
photographed  according  to  the  scope  as  well  as  the 
restrictions  of  the  medium  at  hand  could  be,  as  has 
been  proven,  an  interesting  subject. 

It  has  been  seen,  as  Alfred  Stieglitz  has  so  clearly 
shown,  that  an  eyebrow,  a  leg,  a  tree  trunk,  a  body, 
a  breast,  a  hand,  any  part  being  equal  to  the  whole 
in  its  power  to  tell  the  story,  could  be  made  as 
interesting,  more  so  indeed  than  all  the  famous 
people  in  existence.  It  doesn't  matter  to  us  in  the 
least  that  Morgan  and  Richard  Strauss  helped  fill  a 
folio  alongside  of  Maeterlinck  and  such  like  persons. 
All  this  was,  of  course,  in  keeping  with  the  theatri- 
cism  of  the  period  in  which  it  was  produced,  which  is 
one  of  the  best  things  to  be  said  of  it.  But  we  do 

103 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

know  that  Whistler  helped  ruin  photography  along 
'  with  Wilde  who  helped  ruin  esthetics.  Everyone 
has  his  office  nevertheless.  As  a  consequence,  Alfred 
Stieglitz  was  told  by  the  prevailing  geniuses  of  that 
time  that  he  was  a  back  number  because  of  his  strict 
adherence  to  the  scientific  nature  of  the  medium,  be 
cause  he  didn't  manipulate  his  plate  beyond  the 
strictly  technical  advantages  it  offered,  and  it  was 
not  therefore  a  fashionable  addition  to  the  kind  of 
thing  that  was  being  done  by  the  assuming  ones  at 
that  time.  The  exhibition  of  the  life-work  of  Alfred 
Stieglitz  in  March,  1921,  at  the  Anderson  Galleries, 
New  York,  was  a  huge  revelation  even  to  those  of 
us  who  along  with  our  own  ultra  modern  interests 
had  found  a  place  for  good  unadulterated  photog 
raphy  in  the  scheme  of  our  appreciation  of  the  art 
production  of  this  time. 

I  I  can  say  without  a  qualm  that  photography  has 
always  been  a  real  stimulus  to  me  in  all  the  years  I 
have  been  personally  associated  with  it  through  the 
various  exhibitions  held  along  with  those  of  modern 
painting  at  the  gallery  of  the  Photo-Secession,  or 
more  intimately  understood  as  "291".  Photography 
was  an  interesting  foil  to  the  kind  of  veracity  that 
painting  is  supposed  to  express,  or  rather  to  say,  was 
then  supposed  to  express ;  for  painting  like  all  other 
ideas  has  changed  vastly  in  the  last  ten  years,  and 
even  very  much  since  the  interval  created  by  the 
war.  I  might  have  learned  this  anywhere  else,  but  I 
did  get  it  from  the  Stieglitz  camera  realizations  with 

104 


THE  APPEAL  OF  PHOTOGRAPHY 

more  than  perhaps  the  expected  frequency,  and  I  am 
willing  to  assert  now  that  there  are  no  portraits  in 
existence,  not  in  all  the  history  of  portrait  realiza 
tion  either  by  the  camera  or  in  painting,  which  so 
definitely  present,  and  in  many  instances  with  an 
almost  haunting  clairvoyance,  the  actualities  existing 
in  the  sitter's  mind  and  body  and  soul.  These  por 
traits  are  for  me  without  parallel  therefore  in  this 
particular.  And  I  make  bold  with  another  assertion, 
that  from  our  modern  point  of  view  the  Stieglitz 
photographs  are  undeniable  works  of  art,  as  are 
also  the  fine  photographs  of  the  younger  men  like 
Charles  Sheeler  and  Paul  Strand.  Sheeler,  being 
also  one  of  our  best  modern  painters,  has  probably 
added  to  his  photographic  work  a  different  type  of 
sensibility  by  reason  of  his  experience  in  the  so-called 
creative  medium  of  painting.  It  is,  as  we  know, 
brain  matter  that  counts  in  a  work  of  art,  and  we  ' 
have  dispensed  once  and  for  all  with  the  silly  notion  ( 
that  a  work  of  art  is  made  by  hand.  Art  is  first  and  / 
last  of  all,  a  product  of  the  intelligence. 

I  think  the  photographers  must  at  least  have  been 
a  trifle  upset  with  this  Stieglitz  Exhibition.     I  know 
that  many  of  the  painters  of  the  day  were  noticeably 
impressed.     There  was  much  to  concern  everyone 
there,  in  any  degree  that  can  be  put  upon  us  as  in 
terested  spectators.     For  myself,  I  care  nothing  for  J 
the   gift   of   interpretation,    and   far   less    for  that  \ 
dreadful  type  of  effete  facility  which  produces  a  kind  ' 
of   hocus-pocus   technical   brilliancy  which    fuddles 

105 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

the  eye  with  a  trickery,  and  produces  upon  the  un 
trained  and  uncritical  mind  a  kind  of  unintelligent 
hypnotism.  Art  these  days  is  a  matter  of  scientific 
comprehension  of  reality,  not  a  trick  of  the  hand 
or  the  old-fashioned  manipulation  of  a  brush  or  a 
tool.  I  am  interested  in  presentation  pure  and 
simple.  All  things  that  are  living  are  expression 
and  therefore  part  of  the  inherent  symbology  of  life. 
Art,  therefore,  that  is  encumbered  with  excessive 
symbolism  is  extraneous,  and  from  my  point  of 
view,  useless  art.  Anyone  who  understands  life 
needs  no  handbook  of  poetry  or  philosophy  to  tell 
him  what  it  is.  When  a  picture  looks  like  the  life 
of  the  world,  it  is  apt  to  be  a  fair  picture  or  a 
good  one,  but  a  bad  picture  is  nothing  but  a  bad 
picture  and  it  is  bound  to  become  worse  as  we  think 
of  it.  And  so  for  my  own  pleasure  I  have  consulted 
the  kodak  as  furnishing  me  with  a  better  picture  of 
life  than  many  pictures  I  have  seen  by  many  of  the 
so-called  very  good  artists,  and  I  have  always  de 
lighted  in  the  rotograph  series  of  the  Sunday  papers 
because  they  are  as  close  to  life  as  any  superficial 
representation  can  hope  to  be. 

""  It  was  obvious  then  that  many  of  those  who  saw 
the  Stieglitz  photographs,  and  there  were  large 
crowds  of  them,  were  non-plussed  by  the  unmistak 
able  authenticity  of  experience  contained  in  them. 
If  you  stopped  there  you  were  of  course  mystified, 
but  there  is  no  mystery  whatever  in  these  produc 
tions,  for  they  are  as  clear  and  I  shall  even  go  so  far 

106 


THE  APPEAL  OF  PHOTOGRAPHY 

as  to  say  as  objective  as  the  daylight  which  produced 
them,  and  aside  from  certain  intimate  issues  they  are 
impersonal  as  it  is  possible  for  an  artist  to  be.  It 
is  this  quality  in  them  which  makes  them  live  for 
me  as  realities  in  the  art  world  of  modern  time. 
All  art  calls  for  one  variety  of  audacity  or  another 
and  so  these  photographs  unfold  one  type  of  audacity 
which  is  not  common  among  works  of  art,  excepting 
of  course  in  highly  accentuated  instances  of  auto 
graphic  revelation.  It  is  the  intellectual  sympathy 
with  all  the  subjects  on  exhibition  which  is  revealed 
in  these  photographs :  A  kind  of  spiritual  diagnosis 
which  is  seldom  or  never  to  be  found  among  the 
photographers  and  almost  never  among  the  painters 
of  the  conventional  portrait.  This  ability,  talent, 
virtue,  or  genius,  whatever  you  may  wish  to  name  it, 
is  without  theatricism  and  therefore  without  spec 
tacular  demonstration  either  of  the  sitter  or  the 
method  employed  in  rendering  them. 

It  is  never  a  matter  of  arranging  cheap  and  prac 
tically  unrelated  externals  with  Alfred  Stieglitz.  I 
am  confident  it  can  be  said  that  he  has  never  in  his 
life  made  a  spectacular  photograph.  His  intensity 
runs  in  quite  another  channel  altogether.  It  is  far 
closer  to  the  clairvoyant  exposure  of  the  psychic 
aspects  of  the  moment,  as  contained  in  either  the 
persons  or  the  objects  treated  of.  With  these  essays 
in  character  of  Alfred  Stieglitz,  you  have  a  series 
of  types  who  had  but  one  object  in  mind,  to  lend 
themselves  for  the  use  of  the  machine  in  order  that 

107 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

a  certain  problem  might  be  accurately  rendered  with 
the  scientific  end  of  the  process  in  view,  and  the 
given  actuality  brought  to  the  surface  when  possible. 
I  see  nothing  in  these  portraits  beyond  this.  I  un 
derstand  them  technically  very  little  only  that  I  am 
aware  that  I  have  not  for  long,  and  perhaps  never, 
seen  plates  that  hold  such  depths  of  tonal  value  and 
structural  relationship  of  light  and  shade  as  are 
contained  in  the  hundred  and  fifty  prints  on  ex 
hibition  in  the  Anderson  Galleries.  Art  is  a  vastly 
new  problem  and  this  is  the  first  thing  which  must 
be  learned.  Precisely  as  we  learn  that  a  certain 
type  of  painting  ended  in  the  history  of  the  world 
with  Cezanne. 

There  is  an  impulse  now  in  painting  toward  pho 
tographic  veracity  of  experience  as  is  so  much  in 
evidence  in  the  work  of  an  artist  of  such  fine  percep 
tions  as  Ingres,  with  a  brushing  aside  of  all  old- 
fashioned  notions  of  what  constitutes  artistic  experi 
ence.  There  is  a  deliberate  revolt,  and  photography 
as  we  know  it  in  the  work  of  Alfred  Stieglitz  and  the 
few  younger  men  like  Strand  and  Sheeler  is  part 
of  the  new  esthetic  anarchism  which  we  as  younger 
painters  must  expect  to  make  ourselves  responsible 
for.  It  must  be  remembered  you  know,  that  there 
has  been  a  war,  and  art  is  in  a  condition  of  encourag 
ing  and  stimulating  renascence,  and  we  may  even  go 
so  far  as  to  say  that  it  is  a  greater  world  issue  than 
it  was  previous  to  the  great  catastrophe.  And  also, 
it  must  be  heralded  that  as  far  as  art  is  concerned 

108 


THE  APPEAL  OF  PHOTOGRAPHY 

the  end  of  the  world  has  been  seen.  The  true  artist, 
if  he  is  intelligent,  is  witness  of  this  most  stimulating 
truth  that  confronts  us.  We  cannot  hope  to  function 
esthetically  as  we  did  before  all  this  happened,  be 
cause  we  are  not  the  same  beings  intellectually. 
This  does  not  mean  in  relation  to  photography  that 
all  straight  photography  is  good.  It  merely  means 
that  the  kind  of  photography  I  must  name  "Fifth 
Avenue"  art,  is  a  conspicuous  species  of  artistic 
bunkum,  and  must  be  recognized  as  such. 

Photographers  must  know  that  fogging  and 
blurring  the  image  is  curtailing  the  experience  of  it. 
It  is  a  foolish  notion  that  mystification  is  of  any 
value.  Flattery  is  one  of  the  false  elements  that 
enter  into  the  making  of  a  work  of  art  among  the 
artists  of  doubtful  integrity,  but  this  is  often  if 
not  always  the  commercial  element  that  enters  into 
it.  There  is  a  vast  difference  between  this  sort  of 
representation  and  that  which  is  to  be  found  in 
Greek  sculpture  which  is  nothing  short  of  conscious 
plastic  organization.  These  figures  were  set  up  in 
terms  of  the  prevailing  systems  of  proportion.  Por 
traits  were  likewise  "arranged"  through  the  artistry 
of  the  painter  in  matters  of  decoration  for  the  great 
halls  of  the  periods  in  which  they  were  hung.  They 
were  studies  on  a  large  scale  of  ornamentation. 
Their  beauty  lies  chiefly  in  the  gift  of  execution.  In 
these  modern  photographs  of  Stieglitz  and  his  fol 
lowers  there  is  an  engaging  directness  which  cannot 
be  and  must  not  be  ignored.  They  do  for  once 

109 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

give  in  the  case  of  the  portraits,  and  I  mean  chiefly 
of  course  the  Stieglitz  portraits,  the  actuality  of  the 
sitter  without  pose  or  theatricism  of  any  sort,  a 
rather  rare  thing  to  be  said  of  the  modern  photo 
graph. 

x  Stieglitz,  therefore,  despite  his  thirty  or  more 
years  of  experimentation  comes  up  among  the  mod 
erns  by  virtue  of  his  own  personal  attitude  toward 
photography,  and  toward  his,  as  well  as  its,  relation 
/to  the  subject.  His  creative  power  lies  in  his  ability 
to  diagnose  the  character  and  quality  of  the  sitter 
as  being  peculiar  to  itself,  as  a  being  in  relation  to 
itself  seen  by  his  own  clarifying  insight  into  general 
and  well  as  special  character  and  characteristic.  It 
need  hardly  be  said  that  he  knows  his  business  tech 
nically  for  he  has  been  acclaimed  sufficiently  all  over 
the  world  by  a  series  of  almost  irrelevant  medals  and 
honours  without  end.  The  Stieglitz  exhibition  is 
one  that  should  have  been  seen  by  everyone  regard 
less  of  any  peculiar  and  special  predilection  for  art. 
These  photos  will  have  opened  the  eye  and  the  mind 
of  many  a  sleeping  one  as  to  what  can  be  done  by 
way  of  mechanical  device  to  approach  the  direct 
charm  of  life  in  nature. 

The  moderns  have  long  since  congratulated  Alfred 
Stieglitz  for  his  originality  in  the  special  field  of  his 
own  creative  endeavor.  It  will  matter  little  whether 
the  ancients  do  or  not.  His  product  is  a  fine  testi 
monial  to  his  time  and  therefore  this  is  his  con 
tribution  to  his  time.  He  finds  himself,  and  perhaps 

no 


THE  APPEAL  OF  PHOTOGRAPHY 

to  his  own  embarrassment  even,  among  the  best 
modern  artists;  for  Stieglitz  as  I  understand  him 
cares  little  for  anything  beyond  the  rendering  of  the 
problem  involved  which  makes  him  of  course  scien 
tific  first  and  whatever  else  afterward,  which  is  the 
hope  of  the  modern  artists  of  all  movements,  regard 
less.  Incidentally  it  may  be  confided  he  is  an  artistic 
idol  of  the  Dadaists  which  *s-at  least  a  happy  indi 
cation  of  his  modernism.  If  he  were  to  shift  his 
activities  to  Paris,  he  would  be  taken  up  at  once  for 
his  actual  value  as  modern  artist  expressing  present 
day  notions  of  actual  things.  Perhaps  he  will  not 
care  to  be  called  Dada,  but  it  is  nevertheless  true. 
He  has  ridden  his  own  vivacious  hobbyhorse  with  as 
much  liberty,  and  one  may  even  say  license,  as  is 
possible  for  one  intelligent  human  being.  There  is 
no  space  to  tell  casually  of  his  various  aspects  such 
as  champion  billiard  player,  racehorse  enthusiast, 
etcetera.  This  information  would  please  his  dada- 
istic  confreres,  if  no  one  else  shows  signs  of  interest. 


in 


SOME  WOMEN  ARTISTS  IN  MODERN 
PAINTING 

IT  is  for  the  purpose  of  specialization  that  the 
term  woman  is  herewith  applied  to  the  idea  of  art 
in  painting.  Art  is  for  anyone  naturally  who  can 
show  degree  of  mastery  in  it.  There  have  been  a 
great  many  women  poets  and  musicians  as  well  as 
actors,  though  singularly  enough  the  women  painters 
of  history  have  been  few,  and  for  that  matter  in 
question  of  proportion  remain  so.  Whatever  the 
wish  may  be  in  point  of  dismissing  the  idea  of  sex  in 
painting,  there  has  so  often  been  felt  among  many 
v/omen  engaging  to  express  themselves  in  it,  the 
need  to  shake  off  marked  signs  of  masculinity,  and 
even  brutishness  of  attack,  as  denoting,  and  it  must 
be  said  here,  a  factitious  notion  of  power.  Powerxin 
painting  does  not  come  from  muscularity  of  arm;  it 
comes  naturally  from  the  intellect.  There  are  a 
great  many  male  painters  showing  too  many  signs 
of  femininity  in  their  appreciation  and  the  concep 
tion  of  art  in  painting.  Art  is  neither  male  nor 
female.  Nevertheless,  it  is  pleasing  to  find  women 
artists  such  as  I  wish  to  take  up  here,  keeping  to  the 
charm  of  their  own  feminine  perceptions  and  fem 
inine  powers  of  expression.  It  is  their  very  fem 
ininity  which  makes  them  distinctive  in  these  in- 

112 


SOME  WOMEN  ARTISTS 

stances.  This  does  not  imply  lady-like  approach  or 
womanly  attitude  of  moral.  It  merely  means  that 
their  quality  is  a  feminine  quality. 

In  the  work  of  Madame  Delaunay  Terek,  who  is 
the  wife  of  Delaunay,  the  French  Orphiste,  which  I 
have  not  seen  since  the  war  came  on,  one  can  say 
that  she  was  then  running  her  husband  a  very  close 
second  for  distinction  in  painting  and  intelligence  of 
expression.  When  two  people  work  so  closely  in 
harmony  with  each  other,  it  is  and  will  always  re 
main  a  matter  of  difficulty  in  knowing  just  who  is  the 
real  expressor  of  an  idea.  Whatever  there  is  of 
originality  in  the  idea  of  Orphisme  shall  be  credited 
to  Delaunay  as  the  inventor,  but  whether  his  own 
examples  are  more  replete  than  those  of  Mme. 
Delaunay  Terek  is  not  easy  of  statement.  There 
was  at  that  time  a  marked  increase  of  virility  in 
production  over  those  of  Delaunay  himself,  but  these 
are  matters  of  private  personal  attack.  Her  Russian 
temper  was  probably  responsible  for  this,  at  least 
no  doubt,  assisted  considerably.  There  was  never 
theless  at  that  time  marked  evidence  that  she  was  in 
mastery  of  the  idea  of  Orphisme  both  as  to  concep 
tion  and  execution.  She  showed  greater  signs  of 
virility  in  her  approach  than  did  Delaunay  himself. 
There  was  in  his  work  a  deal  of  what  Gertrude  Stein 
then  called  "white  wind",  a  kind  of  thin  escaping 
in  the  method.  The  designs  did  not  lock  so  keenly. 
His  work  had  always  typical  charm  if  it  had  not 
always  satisfying  vigor.  His  "Tour  Eiffel"  and  £ 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

canvas  called  "Rugby"  I  think,  I  remember  as  hav 
ing  more  grace  than  depth,  but  one  may  say  never 
theless,  real  distinction. 

In  the  exchanging  of  ideas  so  intimately  as  has 
happened  splendidly  between  Picasso  and  Braque, 
which  is  in  the  nature  of  professional  dignity  among 
artists,  there  is  bound  to  be  more  or  less  confusion 
even  to  the  highly  perceptive  artist  and  this  must 
therefore  confuse  the  casual  observer  and  layman. 
So  it  is,  or  was  at  that  time  with  the  painting  of 
Robert  Delaunay  and  Mme.  Delaunay  Terek;  what 
you  learned  in  this  instance  was  that  the  more  vigor 
ous  of  the  pictures  were  hers.  She  showed  the  same 
strength  and  style  in  her  work  as  in  her  interesting 
personality  which  was  convincing  without  being  too 
strained  or  forced;  she  was  "most  probably  an  aver 
age  Russian  woman  which  as  one  knows  means  a 
great  deal  as  to  intelligence  and  personal  power. 

MARIE    LAURENCIN 

With  Marie  Laurencin  there  was  a  greater  sense 
of  personal  and  individual  creation.  One  can  never 
quite  think  of  anyone  in  connection  with  her  pictures 
other  than  the  happy  reminiscence  of  Watteau.  With 
her  work  comes  charm  in  the  highest,  finest  sense; 
there  is  nothing  trivial  about  her  pictures,  yet  they 
abound  in  all  the  graces  of  the  i8th  Century.  Her 
drawings  and  paintings  with  spread  fans  and  now 
and  then  a  greyhound  or  a  gazelle  opposed  against 
them  in  design,  hold  grace  and  elegance  of  feeling 

114 


SOME  WOMEN  ARTISTS 

that  Watteau  would  certainly  have  sanctioned.  She 
brings  up  the  same  sense  of  exquisite  gesture  and 
simplicity  of  movement  with  a  feeling  for  the  ro 
mantic  aspect  of  virginal  life  which  exists  nowhere 
else  in  modern  painting.  She  eliminates  all  severities 
of  intellect,  and  super-imposes  wistful  charm  of  idea 
upon  a  pattern  of  the  most  delicate  beauty.  She  is 
essentially  an  original  which  means  that  she  invents 
her  own  experience  in  art. 

Marie  Laurencin  concerns  herself  chiefly  with  the 
idea  of  girlish  youth,  young  girls  gazing  toward  each 
other  with  fans  spread  or  folded,  and  fine  braids  of 
hair  tied  gently  with  pale  cerise  or  pale  blue  ribbon, 
and  a  pearl-like  hush  of  quietude  hovers  over  them. 
She  arrests  the  attention  by  her  fine  reticence  and 
holds  one's  interest  by  the  veracity  of  esthetic  experi 
ence  she  evinces  in  her  least  or  greatest  painting  or 
drawing.  She  paints  with  miniature  sensibility  and 
knows  best  of  all  what  to  leave  out.  She  is  eminently 
devoid  of  excessiveness  either  in  pose  or  in  treat 
ment,  with  the  result  that  your  eye  is  refreshingly 
cooled  with  the  delicate  process. 

That  Marie  Laurencin  keeps  in  the  grace  of 
French  children  is  in  no  way  surprising  if  you  know 
the  incomparable  loveliness  of  them.  Apart  from 
her  modernistic  excellence  as  artist,  she  conveys  a 
poetry  so  essentially  French  in  quality  that  you  wish 
always  for  more  and  more  of  it.  It  is  the  light 
breath  of  the  Luxembourg  gardens  and  the  gardens 
of  the  Tuilleries  coming  over  you  once  more  and 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

the  same  grace  in  child-life  as  existed  in  the  costly 
games  at  Versailles  among  the  grown-ups  depicted 
so  superbly  by  Watteau  and  his  most  worthy  follow 
ers,  Lancret  and  Pater,  in  whom  touch  is  more  breath 
than  movement.  It  is  a  sensitive  and  gracefully  aris 
tocratic  creation  Marie  Laurencin  produces  for  us, 
one  that  makes  the  eye  avid  of  more  experience  and 
the  mind  of  more  of  its  subtlety.  It  is  an  essentially 
beautiful  and  satisfying  contribution  to  modern 
painting,  this  nacreous  cubism  of  Marie  Laurencin. 

GEORGIA  O'KEEFFE  * 

With  Georgia  O'Keeffe  one  takes  a  far  jump  into 
volcanic  crateral  ethers,  and  sees  the  world  of  a 
woman  turned  inside  out  and  gaping  with  deep  open 
eyes  and  fixed  mouth  at  the  rather  trivial  world  of 
living  people.  "I  wish  people  were  all  trees  and  I 
think  I  could  enjoy  them  then,"  says  Georgia 
O'Keeffe.  Georgia  O'Keeffe  has  had  her  feet 
scorched  in  the  laval  effusiveness  of  terrible  experi 
ence  ;  she  has  walked  on  fire  and  listened  to  the  hiss 
ing  of  vapors  round  her  person.  The  pictures  of 
O'Keeffe,  the  name  by  which  she  is  mostly  known, 
are  probably  as  living  and  shameless  private  docu 
ments  as  exist,  in  painting  certainly,  and  probably 
in  any  other  art.  By  shamelessness  I  mean  unquali 
fied  nakedness  of  statement.  Her  pictures  are  es 
sential  abstractions  as  all  her  sensations  have  been 
tempered  to  abstraction  by  the  too  vicarious  experi- 
*  American. — Ed. 

116 


SOME  WOMEN  ARTISTS 

ence  with  actual  life.  She  had  seen  hell,  one  might 
say,  and  is  the  Sphynxian  sniffer  at  the  value  of  a 
secret.  She  looks  as  if  she  had  ridden  the  millions 
of  miles  of  her  every  known  imaginary  horizon, 
and  has  left  all  her  horses  lying  dead  in  their  tracks. 
All  in  quest  of  greater  knowledge  and  the  greater 
sense  of  truth.  What  these  quests  for  truth  are 
worth  no  one  can  precisely  say,  but  the  tendency 
would  be  to  say  at  least  by  one  who  has  gone  far  to 
find  them  out  that  they  are  not  worthy  of  the  earth 
or  sky  they  are  written  on.  Truth  has  soiled  many 
an  avenue,  it  has  left  many  a  drawing  room  window 
open.  It  has  left  the  confession  box  filled  with 
bones.  However,  Georgia  O'Keeffe  pictures  are 
essays  in  experience  that  neither  Rops  nor  Moreau 
nor  Baudelaire  could  have  smiled  away. 

She  is  far  nearer  to  St.  Theresa's  version  of  life 
as  experience  than  she  could  ever  be  to  that  of 
Catherine  the  Great  or  Lucrezia  Borgia.  Georgia 
O'Keeffe  wears  no  poisoned  emeralds.  She  wears 
too  much  white;  she  is  impaled  with  a  white  con 
sciousness.  It  is  not  without  significance  that  she 
wishes  to  paint  red  in  white  and  still  have  it  look 
like  red.  She  thinks  it  can  be  done  and  yet  there 
is  more  red  in  her  pictures  than  any  other  color  at 
present;  though  they  do,  it  must  be  said,  run  to  rose 
from  ashy  white  with  oppositions  of  blue  to  keep 
them  companionable  and  calm.  The  work  of 
Georgia  O'Keeffe  startles  by  its  actual  experience  in 
life.  This  does  not  imply  street  life  or  sky  life  or 

117 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

drawing  room  life,  but  life  in  all  its  huge  abstrac 
tion  of  pain  and  misery  and  its  huge  propensity  for 
silencing  the  spirit  of  adventure.  These  pictures 
might  also  be  called  expositions  of  psychism  in  color 
and  movement. 

Without  some  one  to  steady  her,  I  think  O'Keeffe 
would  not  wish  the  company  of  more  tangible  things 
than  trees.  She  knows  why  she  despises  existence, 
and  it  comes  from  facing  the  acute  dilemma  with 
more  acuteness  than  it  could  comprehend.  She  is 
vastly  over-size  as  to  experience  in  the  spiritual 
geometric  of  the  world.  All  this  gives  her  painting 
as  clean  an  appearance  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine  in 
painting.  She  soils  nothing  with  cheap  indulgence 
of  wishing  commonplace  things.  She  has  wished  too 
large  and  finds  the  world  altogether  too  small  in 
comparison. 

What  the  future  holds  for  Georgia  O'Keeffe  as 
artist  depends  upon  herself.  She  is  modern  by  in 
stinct  and  (therefore  cannot  avoid  modernity  of  ex 
pression.  It  is  not  willed,  it  is  inevitable.  When 
she  looks  at  a  person  or  a  thing  she  senses  the  effluvia 
that  radiate  from  them  and  it  is  by  this  that  she 
gauges  her  loves  and  hates  or  her  tolerance  of  them. 
It  is  enough  that  her  pictures  arrive  with  a  strange 
incongruous  beauty  which,  though  metaphysically  an 
import,  does  not  disconcert  by  this  insistence.  She 
knows  the  psychism  of  patterns  and  evolves  them 
with  strict  regard  for  the  pictural  aspects  in  them 
which  save  them  from  banality  as  ideas.  She  has 

118 


SOME  WOMEN  ARTISTS 

no  preachment  to  offer  and  utters  no  rubbish  on 
the  subject  of  life  and  the  problem.  She  is  one  of 
the  exceptional  girls  of  the  world  both  in  art  and 
in  life.  As  artist  she  is  as  pure  and  free  from  affec 
tation  as  in  life  she  is  relieved  from  the  necessity 
of  it. 

If  there  are  other  significant  women  in  modern  art 
I  am  not  as  yet  familiarized  with  them.  These  fore 
going  women  take  their  place  definitely  as  artists 
within  the  circle  of  women  painters  like  Le  Brun, 
Mary  Cassatt,  Berthe  Morisot,  and  are  in  advance 
of  them  by  being  closer  to  the  true  appreciation  of 
esthetics  in  inventing  them  for  themselves. 


119 


REVALUATIONS  IN  IMPRESSIONISM 

IN  the  consideration  of  the  real  factors  in  the  im 
pressionistic  movement,  we  learn  that  it  is  not  Monet 
and  the  younger  crew  such  as  Moret,  Maufra, 
George  d'Espagnat  and  Guillaumin  who  give  us  the 
real  weight  of  this  esthetic  argument.  We  find 
Monet  going  in  for  hyper-sentimentalized  iridis- 
cences  which  culminate  or  seem  to  culminate  in  the 
"Lily"  series  until  we  are  forced  to  say  he  has  let 
us  out,  once  and  for  all,  as  far  as  any  further  interest 
in  the  theory  with  which  he  was  concerned.  We  are 
no  longer  held  by  these  artificial  and  overstrained 
hues,  and  we  find  the  younger  followers  offering 
little  or  nothing  to  us  save  an  obvious  integrity  of 
purpose.  These  younger  men  had  apparently  mis 
comprehended  idiosyncrasies  for  ideas  and  that, 
save  for  a  certain  cleanness  of  intention,  they  were 
offering  scarcely  anything  of  what  is  to  be  found  by 
way  of  realization  in  the  pictures  of  a  really  great 
colorist  like  Renoir. 

£The  two  artists  who  give  the  true  thrill  of  this 
phase  of  the  modern  movement  are  without  ques 
tion  Pissarro  and  Sisley.  It  is  the  belief  of  these 
two  artists  in  the  appearance  of  things  for  them 
selves,  under  the  influence  of  the  light  problem, 
which  gives  them  a  strength  not  always  visible  at 

120 


REVALUATIONS  IN  IMPRESSIONISM 

first  by  reason  of  a  greater  simplicity  of  effect  which 
dominates  all  of  their  pictures.  We  see  in  both  these 
men  a  real  and  impressive  desire  for  a  more  exact 
ing  scientific  relation  as  discovered  by  intellectual 
consideration,  than  is  to  be  found  in  the  emotional 
outcry  predominating  in  most  of  the  pictures  of 
Monet/J  These  do  not  hold  for  us  in  this  day  as 
solidly  as  they  were  expected  to.  There  is  a  kind 
of  superficiality  and  consequent  dissatisfaction  in 
the  conspicuous  aspiration  toward  the  first  flush, 
one  may  call  it,  of  enthusiasm  for  impressionistic 
experience.  There  comes  to  one  who  is  really  con 
cerned,  the  ever  increasing  desire  to  turn  toward 
Pissarro  and  Sisley  and  to  quietly  dispense  with 
many  or  most  of  Monet's  pictures,  not  to  speak  of  a 
legitimate  haste  to  pass  over  the  phlegmatic  en 
thusiasms  of  the  younger  followers. 

One  feels  that  Pissarro  must  have  been  a  great 
man  among  men  not  so  great.  One  feels  likewise 
that  the  stately  reticence  of  a  man  like  Sisley  is 
worth  far  more  to  us  now,  if  only  because  we  find  in 
his  works  as  they  hang  one  beside  another  in  num 
bers,  a  soberer  and  more  cautious  approach  to  the 
theme  engrossing  him  and  the  other  artists  of  the 
movement  of  that  time.  In  the  pictures  of  Sisley 
there  is  the  charm  of  the  fact  for  itself,  the  delight 
of  the  problem  of  placing  the  object  in  relation  to 
the  luminous  atmosphere  which  covers  it. 

l^len  like  Pissarro  and  Sisley  were  not  forgetting 
Courbet  and  his  admirable  knowledge  of  reality. 

121 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

They  were  not  concerned  with  the  spectacular  aspect 
of  the  impressionistic  principle,  not  nearly  so  much 
as  with  the  satisfying  realization  of  the  object  under 
the  influence  of  the  new  scientific  problem  in  esthetics 
with  which  they  were  concerned.  For  myself  I  am 
out  of  touch  with  Monet  as  a  creator  and  I  find 
myself  extracting  far  more  satisfaction  and  belief 
from  Pissarro  and  Sisley,  who  deal  with  the  problem 
of  nature  plus  idea,  with  a  much  greater  degree  of 
let  me  even  say  sincerity,  by  reason  of  one  fact 
and  perhaps  the  most  important  one :  they  were  not 
dramatizing  the  idea  in  hand.]  They  were  not  cre 
ating  a  furor  with  pink  and  lavender  haystacks. 
They  were  satisfied  that  there  was  still  something 
to  be  found  in  the  old  arrangement  of  negative  and 
positive  tones  as  they  were  understood  before  the 
application  of  the  spectrum  turned  the  brains  and 
sensibilities  of  men.  In  other  words  Courbet  sur 
vived  while  the  Barbizonians  perished.  There  was 
an  undeniable  realization  of  fact  still  there,  clamor 
ing  for  consideration.  There  was  the  reality  then 
even  as  now,  as  always.  With  Pissarro  and  Sisley 
there  appeared  the  true  separation  of  tone,  making 
itself  felt  most  intelligently  in  the  work  of  these  men 
from  whom  the  real  separatists  Seurat,  Signac,  and 
Cross  were  to  realize  their  principle  of  pointilism, 
of  which  principle  Seurat  Was  to  prove  himself  the 
most  satisfactory  creative  exponent. 

The  world  of  art  lost  a  very  great  deal  in  the 
untimely  death  of  Seurat;  he  was  a  young  man  of 

122 


REVALUATIONS  IN  IMPRESSIONISM 

great  artistic  and  intellectual  gifts.  There  was  an 
artist  by  the  name  of  Vignon  who  came  in  for  his 
share  during  the  impressionistic  period,  probably 
not  with  any  more  dramatic  glamour  than  he 
achieves  now  by  his  very  simple  and  unpretentious 
pictures.  I  am  sorry  for  my  own  pleasure  that  I 
have  not  been  able  to  see  more  of  this  artist's 
pictures  from  whom  I  think  our  own  Theodore 
Robinson  must  have  gained  a  deal  of  strength  for 
his  own  bridge  building  between  Bastien  Le  Page 
and  the  Monet  "eccentricity,"  so  to  call  it. 

There  is  always  a  reason  for  reticence,  and  it  is 
usually  apt  to  come  from  thinking.  Sisley  and  Pis- 
sarro,  Vignon,  Seurat,  and  Robinson  were  thinking 
out  a  way  to  legitimize  the  new  fantastic  craze  for 
prismatic  violence,  and  they  found  it  in  the  direct 
consideration  for  the  fact.  They  knew  that  without 
objects  light  would  have  nowhere  to  fall,  that  the 
earth  confronted  them  with  indispensable  phe 
nomena  each  one  of  which  had  its  reason  for  being. 
They  were  finding  instead  of  losing  their  heads, 
which  is  always  a  matter  of  praise.  I  could  stay 
with  almost  any  Pissarro  or  Sisley  I  have  ever  seen, 
as  I  could  always  want  any  Seurat  near  me,  just  as  I 
could  wish  almost  any  Monet  out  of  sight  because  I 
find  it  submerged  with  emotional  extravagance,  too 
much  enthusiasm  for  his  new  pet  idea. 

Scientific  appreciation  had  not  come  with  scientific 
intentions.  Like  most  movements,  it  was  left  to 
other  than  the  accredited  innovators  for  its  com- 

123 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

pletion  and  perfection.  That  is  why  we  find  Ce 
zanne  working  incessantly  to  create  an  art  which 
would  achieve  a  union  of  impressionism  and  an  art 
like  the  Louvre,  as  he  is  said  to  have  characterized 
it  for  himself.  We  know  now  how  much  Cezanne 
cared  for  Chardin  as  well  as  for  Courbet,  and  Greco. 
There  is  a  reason  why  he  must  have  respected  Pis- 
sarro,  far  more  than  he  did  at  any  time  such  men  as 
Gaugin,  the  "flea  on  his  back"  as  he  so  vividly  and 
perhaps  justly  named  him.  There  was  far  more 
hope  for  a  possible  great  art  to  come  out  of  Van 
Gogh,  who,  in  his  brief  seven  years  had  experi 
mented  with  very  aspect  of  impressionism  that  had 
then  been  divulged.  He  too  was  in  search  of  a 
passionate  realization  of  the  object.  His  method  of 
heavy  stitching  in  bright  hues  was  not  a  perfected 
style.  It  was  an  extravagant  hope  toward  a  personal 
rhythm.  He  was  an  "upwardly"  aspiring  artist  by 
reason  of  his  hyper-accentuated  religious  fervours. 
All  these  extraneous  and  one  might  even  say  irrele 
vant  attempts  toward  speedy  arrivism  are  set  aside 
in  the  presence  of  the  almost  solemn  severity  of 
minds  like  Pissarro  and  Sisley,  and  of  Cezanne,  who 
extracted  for  himself  all  that  was  valuable  in  the 
passing  idea  of  impressionism.  The  picture  which 
lasts  is  never  the  entirely  idiosyncratic  one.  It  is 
that  picture  which  strives  toward  realization  of  ideas 
through  a  given  principle  with  which  it  is  involved. 
So  it  seems  then,  that  if  Monet  invented  the  prin 
ciple  of  impressionism  as  applied  to  painting,  Pis- 

124 


REVALUATIONS  IN  IMPRESSIONISM 

sarro  and  Slsley  assisted  greatly  in  the  creative  idea 
for  our  lasting  use  and  pleasure  by  the  consideration 
of  the  intellect  which  they  applied  to  it;  just  as 
Seurat  has  given  us  a  far  greater  realization  than 
either  Signac  or  Cross  have  offered  us  in  the  principle 
of  pointillism. 

The  "test  of  endurance"  in  the  impressionistic 
movement  is  borne  out;  the  strength  of  realization 
is  to  be  found  in  Pissarro  and  Sisley  and  not  in  the 
vapid  niceties  of  Monet,  whose  work  became  thinner 
and  thinner  by  habitual  repetitive  painting,  and  by  a 
possible  false  sense  of  security  in  his  argument. 
Monet  had  become  the  habitual  impressionist,  and 
the  habitual  in  art  is  its  most  conspicuous  fatality. 
The  art  of  Monet  grew  weaker  throughout  the 
various  stages  of  Waterloo,  Venice,  Rouen,  Giver- 
ney,  and  the  Water  Lilies  which  formed  periods  of 
expression,  at  least  to  the  mind  of  the  observer. 
Monet's  production  had  become  a  kind  of  mercer 
ized  production,  and  a  kind  of  spurious  radiance  in 
vested  them,  in  the  end.  It  remained  for  Pissarro, 
Sisley,  Cezanne,  and  Seurat  to  stabilize  the  new 
discovery,  and  to  give  it  the  stamina  it  was  meant  to 
contain,  as  a  scientific  idea,  scientifically  applied. 


125 


ODILON  REDON 

WITH  the  passing  of  this  rare  artist  during  the 
late  summer  months,*  we  are  conscious  of  the  silenc 
ing  of  one  of  the  foremost  lyricists  in  painting,  one 
of  the  most  delicate  spirits  among  those  who  have 
painted  pictures  so  thoroughly  replete  with  charm, 
pictures  of  such  real  distinction  and  merit.  For 
of  true  charm,  of  true  grace,  of  true  melodic,  Redon 
was  certainly  the  master.  I  think  no  one  has  coveted 
the  vision  so  much  as,  certainly  no  more  than,  has 
this  artist,  possessed  of  the  love  of  all  that  is  dream 
like  and  fleeting  in  the  more  transitory  aspect  of 
earthly  things.  No  one  has  ever  felt  more  that 
fleeting  treasure  abiding  in  the  moment,  no  one  has 
been  more  jealous  of  the  bounty  contained  in  the 
single  glancing  of  the  eye  upward  to  infinity  or 
downward  among  the  minuter  fragments  at  his 
feet. 

It  would  seem  as  if  Redon  had  surely  walked  amid 
gardens,  so  much  of  the  morning  is  in  each  of  his 
fragile  works.  There  seems  always  to  be  hovering 
in  them  the  breath  of  those  recently  spent  dawns  of 
which  he  was  the  eager  spectator,  never  quite  the  full 
sunlight  of  the  later  day.  Essentially  he  was  the 
worshipper  of  the  lip  of  flower,  of  dust  upon  the 

*  Of  1917.— Ed. 

126 


ODILON  REDON 

moth  wing,  of  the  throat  of  young  girl,  or  brow  of 
young  boy,  of  the  sudden  flight  of  bird,  the  soft 
going  of  light  clouds  in  a  windless  sky.  These  were 
the  gentle  stimulants  to  his  most  virile  expression. 
Nor  did  his  pictures  ever  contain  more;  they  never 
struggled  beyond  the  quality  of  legend,  at  least  as  I 
know  them.  He  knew  the  loveliness  in  a  profile,  he 
saw  always  the  evanescences  of  light  upon  light  and 
purposeless  things.  The  action  or  incident  in  his 
pictures  was  never  more  than  the  touch  of  some  fair 
hand  gently  and  exquisitely  brushing  some  swinging 
flower.  He  desired  implicitly  to  believe  in  the  im 
mortality  of  beauty,  that  things  or  entities  once  they 
were  beautiful  could  never  die,  at  least  for  him.  I 
followed  faithfully  for  a  time  these  fine  fragments 
in  those  corners  of  Paris  where  they  could  be  found, 
and  there  was  always  sure  to  be  in  them,  always  and 
ever  that  perfect  sense  of  all  that  is  melodic  in  the 
universe. 

I  do  not  know  much  of  his  early  career  as  an 
artist.  I  have  read  passages  from  letters  which  he 
wrote  not  so  long  ago,  in  which  he  recounts  with 
tenderness  the  dream  life  of  his  childhood,  how 
he  used  to  stand  in  the  field  for  hours  or  lie  quietly 
upon  some  cool  hill  shaded  with  young  leaves,  watch 
ing  the  clouds  transforming  themselves  into  wing 
shapes  and  flower  shapes,  staining  his  fancy  with  the 
magic  of  their  delicate  color  and  form — indeed,  it 
would  seem  as  if  all  things  had  for  him  been  born 
somewhere  in  the  clouds  and  had  condescended  to  an 

127 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

earthward  existence  for  a  brief  space,  the  better  to 
show  their  rarity  of  grace  for  the  interval.  Al 
though  obviously  rendered  from  the  object,  they 
were  still-lifes  which  seemed  to  take  on  a  kind  of 
cloud  life  during  the  very  process  of  his  creation. 
They  paid  tribute  to  that  simple  and  unaffected 
statement  of  his — "I  have  fashioned  an  art  after 
myself."  Neither  do  I  know  just  how  long  he  was 
the  engraver  and  just  how  long  he  was  the  painter 
— it  is  evident  everywhere  that  his  line  is  the  line  of 
the  fastidious  artist  on  steel  and  stone. 

Beyond  these  excessively  frail  renderings  of  his, 
whether  in  oil  or  in  pastel,  I  do  not  know  him,  but 
I  am  thinking  always  in  the  presence  of  them  that 
he  listened  very  attentively  and  with  more  than  a 
common  ear  to  the  great  masters  in  music,  absorbing 
at  every  chance  all  that  was  in  them  for  him.  He 
had  in  his  spirit  the  classical  outline  of  music,  with 
nothing  directly  revolutionary,  no  sign  of  what  we 
call  revolt  other  than  the  strict  adherence  to  per 
sonal  relationship,  no  other  prejudice  than  the 
artist's  reaction  against  all  that  is  not  really  refined 
to  art,  with  but  one  consuming  ardor,  and  that  to 
render  with  extreme  tranquillity  everything  delicate 
and  lovely  in  passing  things.  There  is  never  any 
thing  in  his  pictures  outside  the  conventional  logic 
of  beauty,  and  if  they  are  at  all  times  ineffably  sweet, 
it  is  only  because  Redon  himself  was  like  them,  joy 
fully  living  out  the  days  because  they  were  for  him 
ineffably  sweet,  too.  Most  of  all  it  is  Redon  who 

128 


ODILON  REDON 

has  rendered  with  exceptional  elegance  and  extreme 
artistry,  the  fragment. 

It  is  in  his  pictures,  replete  with  exquisiteness, 
that  one  finds  the  true  analogy  to  lyric  poetry.  This 
lyricism  makes  them  seem  mostly  Greek — often  I 
have  thought  them  Persian,  sometimes  again,  In 
dian;  certainly  he  learned  something  from  the  Chi 
nese  in  their  porcelains  and  in  their  embroidery.  I 
am  sure  he  has  been  fond  of  these  outer  influences, 
these  Oriental  suggestions  which  were  for  him  the 
spiritual  equivalent  from  the  past  for  his  spontane 
ous  ideas,  for  he,  too,  had  much  of  all  this  magic, 
as  he  had  much  of  the  hypnotic  quality  of  jewelry 
and  precious  stones  in  all  his  so  delicate  pictures, 
firelike  in  their  subtle  brilliancy.  They  have  always 
seemed  to  contain  this  suggestion  for  me :  flowers 
that  seemed  to  be  much  more  the  embodiment  of 
jades,  rubies,  emeralds,  and  ambers,  than  just  flow 
ers  from  the  common  garden.  His  flamelike 
touches  have  always  held  this  preciousness  :  notations 
rather  for  the  courtly  robe  or  diadem  than  just  draw 
ings.  All  this  gift  of  goldsmithery  comes  as  one 
would  expect,  quite  naturally,  from  his  powers  as 
an  engraver,  in  which  art  he  held  a  first  place  in  his 
time  and  was  the  master  of  the  younger  school, 
especially  in  Belgium,  and  Germany.  Of  all  the 
painters  of  this  time  it  is  certain  he  was  first  among 
them  essaying  to  picture  the  jewelled  loveliness  of 
nature;  it  is  most  evident  in  La  Touche  who  was 
in  no  way  averse  to  Renoir  either,  but  Redon  has 

129 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

created  this  touch  for  himself  and  it  is  the  touch  of 
the  virtuoso.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  well  if 
Moreau,  who  had  a  sicker  love  of  this  type  of  ex 
pression,  had  followed  Redon  more  closely,  as  he 
might  then  have  added  a  little  more  lustre  to  these 
very  dead  literary  failures  of  his. 

I  cannot  now  say  who  else  beside  Ferdinand 
Khnopff  has  been  influenced  greatly  by  him,  but  I  do 
know  that  he  was  beloved  by  the  more  modern  men, 
that  he  was  revered  by  all  regardless  of  theories  or 
tenets,  for  there  is  in  existence  somewhere  in  Paris 
a  volume  of  letters  and  testimonials  celebrating  some 
anniversary  of  Redon  in  proof  of  it.  And  I  think 
that — regardless  of  ideas — the  artist  must  always 
find  him  sympathetic,  if  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  he  was  the  essence  of  refinement,  of  delicacy, 
and  of  taste.  When  I  think  of  Redon  I  think  of 
Shelley  a  little,  "he  is  dusty  with  tumbling  about 
among  the  stars,"  and  I  think  somewhat,  too,  of 
some  phrases  in  Debussy  and  his  unearthly  school 
of  musicians,  for  if  we  are  among  those  who  admire 
sturdier  things  in  art  we  can  still  love  the  fine  gift 
of  purity.  And  of  all  gifts  Redon  has  that,  cer 
tainly. 

His  art  holds,  too,  something  of  that  breathless- 
ness  among  the  trees  one  finds  in  Watteau  and  in 
Lancret,  maybe  more  akin  to  Lancret,  for  he,  also, 
was  more  a  depicter  of  the  ephemeral.  We  think 
of  Redon  as  among  those  who  transvaluate  all 
earthly  sensations  in  terms  of  a  purer  element.  We 

130 


ODILON  REDON 

think  of  him  as  living  with  his  head  among  the 
mists,  alert  for  all  those  sudden  bursts  of  light  which 
fleck  here  and  there  forgotten  or  unseen  places, 
making  them  live  with  a  new  resplendency,  full  of 
new  revealment,  perfect  with  wonder.  Happily  we 
find  in  him  a  hatred  of  description  and  of  illustration, 
we  find  these  pictures  to  be  illuminations  from  rich 
pages  not  observed  by  the  common  eye,  decorations 
out  of  a  world  the  like  of  which  has  been  but  too 
seldom  seen  by  those  who  aspire  to  vision.  Chansons 
sans  paroles  are  they,  ringing  clearly  and  flawlessly 
to  the  eye  as  do  those  songs  of  Verlaine  (with  whom 
(ic  has  also  some  relationship)  to  the  well-attuned  ear. 
He  was  the  master  of  the  nuance,  and  the  nuance 
was  his  lyricism,  his  special  gift,  his  genius.  He 
knew  perfectly  the  true  vibration  of  note  to  note, 
and  how  few  are  they  whose  esthetic  emotions  are 
built  upon  the  strictly  poetic  basis,  who  escape  the 
world-old  pull  towards  description  and  illustration. 
How  few,  indeed,  among  those  of  the  materialistic 
vision  escape  this.  But  for  Redon  there  was  but 
one  world,  and  that  a  world  of  imperceptible  light 
on  all  things  visible,  with  always  a  kind  of  song  of 
adoration  upon  his  lips,  as  it  were,  obsessed  with 
reverence  and  child  wonder  toward  every  least  and 
greatest  thing,  and  it  was  in  these  portrayals  of 
least  things  that  he  exposed  their  naked  loveliness 
as  among  the  greatest.  Never  did  Redon  seek  for 
the  miniature;  he  knew  merely  that  the  part  is  the 
representation  of  the  whole,  that  the  perfect  frag- 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

ment  is  a  true  representative  of  beauty,  and  that  the 
vision  of  some  fair  hand  or  some  fair  eye  is  sure 
to  be  the  epitome  of  all  that  is  lovely  in  the  indi 
vidual. 

We  have  as  a  result  of  this  almost  religious  devo 
tion  of  Redon's,  the  fairest  type  of  the  expression 
of  that  element  which  is  the  eye's  equivalent  for 
melodious  sound.  In  his  pictures  he  perpetuated 
his  belief  in  the  unfailing  harmony  in  things.  Either 
all  things  were  lovely  in  his  eye,  or  they  are  made 
beautiful  by  thinking  beautifully  of  them.  That  was 
the  only  logic  in  Redon's  painting.  He  questioned 
nothing;  he  saw  the  spiritual  import  of  every  object 
on  which  his  eye  rested.  No  one  shall  go  to  Redon 
for  any  kind  of  intellectual  departure  or  for  any 
highly  specialized  theory — it  is  only  too  evident 
from  his  work  that  he  had  none  in  mind.  He  had, 
I  think,  a  definite  belief  in  the  theosophic  principle 
of  aura,  in  that  element  of  emanation  which  would 
seem  sometimes  to  surround  delicate  objects  touched 
with  the  suffusion  of  soft  light.  For  him  all  things 
seemed  "possessed"  by  some  colorful  presence  which 
they  themselves  could  in  no  way  be  conscious  of, 
somewhat  the  same  sort  of  radiance  which  floods 
the  features  of  some  beauteous  person  and  creates 
a  presence  there  which  the  person  is  not  even  con 
scious  of,  the  imaginative  reality,  in  other  words, 
existing  either  within  or  without  everything  the  eye 
beholds.  For  him  the  very  air  which  hovered  about 
all  things  seemed  to  have,  as  well,  the  presence  of 

132 


ODILON  REDON 

color  not  usually  seen  of  men,  and  it  was  this  emana 
tion  or  presence  which  formed  the  living  quality  of 
his  backgrounds  in  which  those  wondrous  flowery 
heads  and  hands  and  wings  had  their  being,  through 
which  those  dusty  wings  of  most  unearthly  butter 
flies  or  moths  hurry  so  feverishly.  He  has  given 
us  a  happy  suggestion  of  the  reality  of  spiritual 
spaces  and  the  way  that  these  fluttering  bodies  which 
are  little  more  than  spirit  themselves  have  enjoyed  a 
beauteous  life.  He  was  Keats-like  in  his  apprecia 
tion  of  perfect  loveliness,  like  Shelley  in  his  pas 
sionate  desire  to  transform  all  local  beauty  into  uni 
versal  terms. 

No  one  will  quarrel  with  Redon  on  account  of 
what  is  not  in  him.  What  we  do  find  in  him  is  the 
poetry  of  a  quiet,  sweet  nature  in  quest  always  of 
perfect  beauty,  longing  to  make  permanent  by 
means  of  a  rare  and  graceful  art  some  of  those  frag 
ments  which  have  given  him  his  private  and  per 
sonal  clue  to  the  wonders  of  the  moment,  creating 
a  personal  art  by  being  himself  a  rare  and  lovely 
person.  He  remains  for  us  one  of  the  finest  of 
artists,  who  has  reverted  those  whisperings  from  the 
great  world  of  visual  melody  in  which  he  lived.  It 
was  with  these  exquisite  fragments  that  he  adorned 
the  states  of  his  own  soul  in  order  that  he  might 
present  them  as  artist  in  tangible  art  form.  We 
are  grateful  for  his  lyricism  and  for  his  exquisite 
goldsmithery.  After  viewing  his  delicately  beauti 
ful  pictures,  objects  take  on  a  new  poetic  wonder. 

133 


THE  VIRTUES  OF  AMATEUR  PAINTING 

WITH  SPECIAL  PRAISES  FOR  JENNIE  VANVLEET 
COWDERY 

SOME  of  the  finest  instances  of  pure  painting  will 
be  found,  not  as  might  be  imagined  by  the  layman, 
among  the  professional  artists,  but  among  those 
amateurs  whose  chief  occupation  is  amusing  them 
selves  first  of  all.  If  you  who  read  will  make  close 
reference  to  those  rich  examples  of  the  mid-Vic 
torian  period,  when  it  was  more  or  less  distinguished 
to  take  up  painting  along  with  the  other  accomplish 
ments,  you  will  find  that  the  much  tabooed  anti 
macassar  period  produced  a  species  of  painting  that 
was  as  indicative  of  personal  style  and  research  as 
it  was  fresh  in  its  elemental  approach.  The  per 
fect  instance  in  modern  art  of  this  sort  of  original 
painting  raised  to  the  highest  excellence  is  that  of 
Henri  Rousseau,  the  true  primitive  of  our  so  eclectic 
modern  period.  No  one  can  have  seen  a  picture  of 
this  most  talented  douanier  without  being  convinced 
that  technique  for  purely  private  personal  needs  has 
been  beautified  to  an  extraordinary  degree. 

Rousseau  stands  among  the  very  best  tonalists 
as  well  as  among  the  best  designers  of  modern  time, 
and  his  pictures  hold  a  quality  so  related  to  the  ex 
perience  contained  in  their  subjects,  as  to  seem  like 

134 


THE  VIRTUES  OF  AMATEUR  PAINTING 

the  essence  of  the  thing  itself.  You  feel  that  un 
questionably  Rousseau's  Paris  is  Paris,  and  you  are 
made  to  feel  likewise  that  his  jungle  scenes  are  at 
very  least  his  own  experiences  of  his  earlier  life  in 
Mexico.  Rousseau  convinces  by  his  unquestionable 
sensitivity  and  integrity  of  approach.  He  was  not 
fabricating  an  art,  he  was  endeavoring  to  create  a 
real  picture  for  his  own  private  satisfaction,  and  his 
numerous  successes  are  both  convincing  and  ad 
mirable. 

As  I  have  said,  if  you  have  access  to  a  variety  of 
amateur  pictures  created  during  the  mid- Victorian 
era,  of  whatever  style  or  subject,  you  will  find  in 
them  the  most  admirably  sincere  qualities  of  paint 
ing  as  well  as  singularly  enchanting  gifts  for  sim- 
plication  and  the  always  engaging  respect  for  the 
fact  itself  out  of  which  these  painted  romanzas  are 
created.  There  was  the  type  of  memorial  picture 
for  instance,  with  its  proverbial  tombstone,  its  weep 
ing  willow  tree,  and  its  mourner  leaning  with  one 
elbow,  usually  on  the  cornice  above,  where  the  name 
of  the  beloved  deceased  is  engraved;  below  it  the 
appropriate  motto  and  its  added  wealth  of  orna 
mentation  in  the  way  of  landscape,  with  houses,  hills, 
winding  roads,  with  maybe  an  animal  or  two  graz 
ing  in  the  field,  and  beyond  all  this  vista,  an  ocean 
with  pretty  vessels  passing  on  their  unmindful  way, 
and  more  often  than  not,  many  species  of  bright 
flowers  in  the  foreground  to  heighten  the  richness 

1.35 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

of  memory  and  the  sentimental  aspects  of  bereave 
ment. 

I  wish  I  could  take  you  to  two  perfect  examples 
of  this  sort  of  amateur  painting  which  I  have  in 
mind,  now  in  the  possession  of  the  Maine  Historical 
Society,  of  Portland,  Maine,  as  well  as  one  other 
superb  and  still  more  perfect  example  of  this  sort 
of  luxuriously  painted  memory  of  life,  in  the  col 
lection  of  a  noted  collector  of  mid-Victorian  splen 
dours,  near  Boston.  It  is  sensation  at  first  hand 
with  these  charmingly  impressive  amateur  artists. 
They  have  been  hampered  in  no  way  with  the  banal 
ity  of  school  technique  learned  in  the  manner  of  the 
ever-present  and  unoriginal  copyist.  They  literally 
invent  expression  out  of  a  personally  accumulated 
passion  for  beauty  and  they  have  become  aware  of  it 
through  their  own  intensely  personalised  contact  with 
life.  The  marine  painters  of  this  period,  and  ear 
lier,  of  which  there  have  been  almost  numberless 
instances,  and  of  whose  fine  performances  there  are 
large  numbers  on  view  in  the  Marine  Museum  in 
Salem,  Mass.,  offer  further  authentication  of  pri 
vate  experience  with  phases  of  life  that  men  of  the 
sea  are  sure  to  know,  the  technical  beauty  alone  of 
which  furnishes  the  spectator  with  many  surprises 
and  fascinations  in  the  line  of  simplicity  and  di 
rectness  of  expression. 

Many  of  these  amateur  painters  were  no  longer 
young  in  point  of  actual  years.  Henri  Rousseau 
was  as  we  know  past  forty  when  he  was  finally  driven 

136 


THE  VIRTUES  OF  AMATEUR  PAINTING 

to  painting  in  order  to  establish  his  own  psychic 
entity.  And  so  it  is  with  all  of  them,  for  there 
comes  a  certain  need  somewhere  in  the  conscious 
ness  of  everyone,  to  offset  the  tedium  of  common 
experience  with  some  degree  of  poetic  sublimation. 
With  the  result  that  many  of  them  find  their  way 
out  by  taking  to  paints  and  brushes  and  canvas,  as 
tonishing  many  a  real  painter,  if  not  the  untutored 
layman,  who  probably  expects  to  be  mystified  in  one 
way  or  another  by  something  which  he  thinks  he 
does  not  understand.  It  is  of  the  charming  pic 
tures  of  Jennie  Vanvleet  Cowdery  that  I  wish  to 
speak  here. 

Mrs.  Cowdery  is  a  southern  lady,  and  of  this  fact 
you  become  aware  instantly  you  find  yourself  in  con 
versation  with  her.  She  evidences  all  the  traits  and 
characteristics  of  a  lady  of  her  period,  which  is  to 
say  the  late  mid- Victorian,  for  she  must  have  been 
a  graceful  young  woman  herself  at  the  close  of  this 
fascinating  period.  And  you  find,  therefore,  in  her 
quaint  and  convincingly  original  pictures,  the  pas 
sion  for  the  charms  and  graces  that  were  consistent 
with  the  period  in  which  she  spent  her  girlhood,  and 
which  has  left  upon  her  consciousness  so  dominant 
a  trace.  The  pictures  of  Mrs.  Cowdery,  despite 
their  remoteness  of  surrounding — for  she  always 
places  her  graceful  figures,  which  are  no  less  than 
the  embodiments  of  her  own  graceful  states  of  being, 
in  a  dense  woodland  scene — bring  up  to  the  senses 
all  the  fragrances  of  that  past  time,  the  redolence  of 

137 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

the  oleander  by  the  wall,  of  the  camelia  in  the 
shadow,  and  of  the  pansy  by  the  hedge.  You  ex 
pect  these  Ladies  to  shake  gently  upon  the  air,  like 
flowers  in  the  morning,  their  own  fascinating  per 
fumes,  as  you  expect  them  to  recite  in  the  quietude 
of  the  wood  in  which  they  are  walking  those  senti 
ments  which  are  appropriate  to  the  season  and  of 
other  soft  remembrances. 

Mrs.  Cowdery  might  have  taken  to  needlework, 
and  sat  like  many  another  young  woman  of  that 
time  by  the  window  with  the  sunlight  streaming  in 
upon  the  coloured  stitches  of  her  work,  or  she  might 
perhaps  more  strictly  have  taken  to  miniature  paint 
ing,  the  quality  of  which  style  is  so  much  in  evidence 
in  these  pleasant  pictures  of  hers.  The  pictures  of 
Mrs.  Cowdery  will  not  stimulate  the  spectator  to 
reflect  with  gravity  upon  the  size  of  the  universe, 
but  they  dwell  entirely  upon  the  intimate  charm  of 
it,  the  charm  that  rises  out  of  breeding  and  culti 
vation,  and  a  feeling  for  the  finer  graces  of  the  body 
and  sweet  purities  of  mind.  Mrs.  Cowdery  is  es 
sentially  a  breather  and  a  bringer  of  peace.  There 
is  no  purpose  in  these  gracious  and  entertaining  pic 
tures,  for  they  are  invented  solely  to  recall  and  make 
permanent,  for  this  lady's  own  delight,  those  mo 
ments  of  joy  of  which  there  must  have  been  many 
if  the  gentleness  and  the  clear  quality  of  revery  in 
them  is  to  be  taken;  and  these  pictures  are  to  be 
taken  first  and  last  as  genuine  works  of  art  in  their 

138 


THE  VIRTUES  OF  AMATEUR  PAINTING 

own  way,  which  is  the  only  way  that  true  works  of 
art  can  be  taken  seriously. 

The  most  conspicuous  virtue  of  these  quaintly  en 
gaging  pictures  of  Mrs.  Cowdery  is  the  certainty 
you  find  in  them  of  the  lack  of  struggle.  Their  au 
thor  is,  without  doubt,  at  peace  with  the  world,  for 
the  world  is  without  significance  in  the  deeper  sense 
to  all  really  serious  artists,  those  who  have  vital 
information  to  convey.  Mrs.  Cowdery's  career  as 
a  painter  is  of  short  and  impressive  duration,  barely 
four  years  she  confides,  and  she  has  been  an  engag 
ing  feature  of  the  Society  of  Independent  Artists 
for  at  least  three  of  these  years,  I  believe.  It  is  her 
picture  which  she  names  "1869"  which  has  called 
most  attention  to  her  charming  talents,  and  which 
created  so  convincing  an  impression  among  the 
artists  for  its  originality  and  its  insistence  upon  the 
rendering  of  beautified  personal  experience. 

Mrs.  Cowdery  must  have  loved  her  earliest  girl 
ish  hours  with  excessive  delight,  and  perhaps  it  is 
the  garish  contrast  of  the  youth  of  the  young  women 
of  this  time,  energetic  and,  from  the  mid- Victorian 
standpoint  certainly,  so  unwomanly,  that  prompts 
this  gentle  and  refined  woman  to  people  her  gra 
cious  solitudes  of  spirit  with  those  still  more  gracious 
ladylike  beings  which  she  employs.  For  her  pic 
tures,  that  is  her  most  typical  ones,  contain  always 
these  groupings  of  figures  in  crinoline-like  gowns 
with  perhaps  more  of  the  touch  of  eighteen-eighty 
than  of  seventy  in  them,  so  given  to  flounces  and 

139 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

cascades  of  lace  with  picture  hats  to  shade  the  eyes, 
and  streamers  of  velvet  ribbon  to  give  attenuated 
sensations  of  grace  to  their  quietly  sweeping  fig 
ures  that  seem  to  be  always  in  a  state  of  harmless 
gossip  among  themselves.  One  never  knows 
whether  it  is  to  be  quite  morning  or  afternoon  for 
there  is  seldom  or  never  present  the  quality  of  di 
rect  sunlight;  but  as  ladies  and  gentlemen  usually 
walk  in  the  afternoon  even  now,  if  there  are  still 
such  virtuous  entities  as  ladies  and  gentlemen,  we 
may  presume  that  these  are  afternoon  seances, 
poetically  inscribed,  which  Mrs.  Cowdery  wishes  to 
convey  to  us.  That  Mrs.  Cowdery  has  a  well  ad 
justed  feeling  for  the  harmony  of  hues  is  evident 
in  her  production  as  well  as  in  the  outline  of  her 
simple  and  engaging  conversation. 

Thus  the  lady  lives,  in  a  world  gently  fervorous 
with  lyric  delicacies,  and  her  own  almost  girlish 
laughter  is  like  a  kind  of  gracious  music  for  the 
scenes  she  wishes  to  portray.  I  am  reminded  in  this 
instance  to  compare  her  gentle  voice  with  the  almost 
inaudible  one  of  Albert  Ryder,  that  greatest  of 
visionaries  which  America  has  so  far  produced.  It 
is  probable  that  all  mystical  types  have  voices  soft 
ened  to  whispers  by  the  vastness  of  the  experience 
which  they  have  endured.  These  gentle  souls  sur 
vive  the  period  they  were  born  in,  and  it  is  their 
clean  and  unspoiled  vision  that  brings  them  over  to 
us  in  this  hectic  and  metallic  era  of  ours.  They 
come,  it  must  be  remembered,  from  the  era  of  Jenny 

140 


THE  VIRTUES  OF  AMATEUR  PAINTING 

Lind  and  Castle  Garden,  though  of  course  in  Mrs. 
Cowdery's  case  she  is  too  young  actually  to  have  sur 
vived  that  period  literally.  It  is  the  grace  of  that 
period,  however,  to  which  she  has  become  heir  and 
all  her  efforts  have  been  exercised  in  rendering  of 
the  graces  of  this  playful  and  pretty  hour  of  hu 
man  life. 

We  are  reminded,  for  the  moment  only,  of  Mon- 
ticelli,  chiefly  through  similarity  of  subject,  for  he 
also  was  fond  of  the  silent  park  inhabited  with  gra 
cious  beings  in  various  states  of  spiritual  ecstasy  and 
satisfaction.  In  the  pictures  of  Mrs.  Cowdery  there 
is  doubtless  greater  intimacy  of  feeling,  because  it 
is  a  private  and  very  personal  issue  with  her  own 
happy  soul.  She  has  come  out  on  the  other  edge 
of  the  horizon  of  the  world  of  humans,  and  finds 
the  looking  backward  so  imperatively  exquisite  as 
to  make  it  necessary  for  her  to  paint  them  with  in 
nocent  fidelity;  and  so  she  has  set  about,  without 
any  previous  experience  in  the  handling  of  homely 
materials,  to  make  them  tell  in  quaint  and  gracious 
accents  the  pretty  story  of  the  life  of  her  revivified 
imagination.  In  these  ways  she  becomes  a  kind  of 
revivification  of  the  spirit  of  Watteau,  who  has 
made  perfect,  for  us  all,  what  is  perfect  in  the  clas 
sicized  ideality  of  experience. 

I  think  of  Mrs.  Cowdery's  pictures  as  mid-Vic 
torian  fans,  for  they  seem  more  like  these  frail 
shapes  to  be  wafted  by  frail  and  slender  hands;  I 
seem  to  feel  the  quiet  glitter  of  prisms  hanging  from 

141 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

huge  chandeliers  in  a  ball-room,  as  I  look  at  them; 
for  they  become,  if  you  do  not  scrutinize  them  too 
closely  as  works  of  art,  rather  as  prismatic  memories 
bathed  in  the  light  of  that  other  time,  when  men 
and  women  now  grandfathers  and  grandmothers 
were  young  and  handsome  boys  and  girls,  seeking 
each  other  out  in  the  fashion  of  polite  beaus  and 
belles,  a  period  that  will  never  come  again,  it  is  cer 
tain.  Mrs.  Cowdery  need  not  be  alarmed  that 
modern  painters  wish  to  offer  plain  homage  to  her 
fresh  and  engaging  talents.  It  is  an  object  lesson, 
if  such  is  necessary,  to  all  men  and  women  past  fifty: 
that  there  is  still  something  for  each  of  them  to  do 
in  a  creative  way;  and  I  can  think  of  no  more  en 
gaging  way  for  them  than  to  recite  the  romantic 
history  of  their  youthful  longings  and  realizations 
to  a  world  that  has  little  time  for  making  history 
so  romantically  inoffensive. 

Mrs.  Cowdery  may  be  complimented  therefore 
that  she  has  followed  her  professional  daughter's 
advice  to  take  up  painting  as  a  pastime,  and  she  has 
already  shown  in  these  brief  four  years,  with  all 
the  intermissions  that  are  natural  to  any  ordinary 
life,  that  she  is  a  fine  type  of  amateur  artist  with  all 
the  world  of  rediscovery  at  her  disposal.  She  will 
be  hampered  in  no  way  with  the  banalities  of  in 
struction  offered  her  by  the  assuming  ones.  She 
is  beyond  the  need  of  anything  but  self-invention, 
and  this  will  be  her  own  unique  and  satisfying  pleas 
ure.  It  is  in  no  way  amiss,  then,  to  congratulate 

142 


THE  VIRTUES  OF  AMATEUR  PAINTING 

Mrs.  Cowdery  upon  her  new  and  vital  artistic  ca 
reer.  That  she  will  have  further  success  is  proven 
by  the  few  pictures  already  created  by  her.  They 
show  the  unmistakable  signs  of  taste  and  artistic 
comprehension  as  applied  to  her  own  spiritual 
vision.  No  intervention  will  be  of  any  avail,  save 
perhaps  the  permissible  intervention  of  praise  and 
congratulations. 

Incidentally,  I  would  recommend  to  those  artists 
who  are  long  since  jaded  with  repetition  and  suc 
cess,  and  there  are  many  of  them,  to  refresh  their 
eyes  and  their  senses  with  the  work  of  these  out 
wardly  unassuming  but  thoroughly  convincing  ama 
teurs,  like  Henri  Rousseau,  Mrs.  Cowdery  and  the 
many  others  whose  names  do  not  appear  on  their 
handsome  works  of  art.  There  is  such  freshness 
of  vision  and  true  art  experience  contained  in  them. 
They  rely  upon  the  imagination  entirely  for  their 
revelations,  and  there  is  always  present  in  these 
unprofessional  works  of  art  acute  observation  of 
fact  and  fine  gifts  for  true  fancy.  These  amateurs 
are  never  troubled  with  the  "how"  of  mediocre 
painting;  neither  are  they  troubled  with  the  wiles 
of  the  outer  world.  They  remain  always  charming 
painters  of  personal  visionary  experience,  and  as 
such  are  entitled  to  praise  for  their  genuine  gifts  in 
rendering,  as  well  as  for  a  natural  genius  for  inter 
pretation. 


143 


HENRI  ROUSSEAU 

NOT  long  since,  we  heard  much  of  naivete — it 
was  the  fashion  among  the  schools  and  the  lesser 
individuals  to  use  this  term  in  describing  the  work 
of  anyone  who  sought  to  distinguish  himself  by  ec 
centricity  of  means.  It  was  often  the  term  applied 
to  bizarrerie — it  was  fashionable  to  draw  naively, 
as  it  was  called.  We  were  expected  to  believe  in 
a  highly  developed  and  overstrained  simplicity,  it 
was  the  resort  of  a  certain  number  who  wanted  to 
realize  speedy  results  among  the  unintelligent.  It 
was  a  pose  which  lasted  not  long  because  it  was 
obviously  a  pose,  and  a  pose  not  well  carried,  it  had 
not  the  prescribed  ease  about  it  and  showed  signs 
of  labor.  It  had,  for  a  time,  its  effect  upon  really 
intelligent  artists  with  often  respectable  results,  as 
it  drew  the  tendency  away  from  too  highly  involved 
sophistication.  It  added  a  fresh  temper  in  many 
ways,  and  helped  men  to  a  franker  type  of  self-ex 
pression;  and  was,  as  we  may  expect,  something 
apart  from  the  keen  need  of  obliviousness  in  the 
great  modern  individualists,  those  who  were  seek 
ing  direct  contact  with  subject. 

We  have  learned  in  a  short  space  of  time  that 
whatever  was  exceptional  in  the  ideas  and  attitudes 
of  the  greater  ones,  as  we  know  them,  was  not  at 

144 


HENRI  ROUSSEAU 

all  the  outcome  of  the  struggle  toward  an  affected 
naivete  such  as  we  have  heard  so  much  about,  but 
was,  on  another  hand,  a  real  phase  of  their  original 
ity,  the  other  swing  of  the  pendulum,  so  to  call  it. 
It  was  the  "accent"  of  their  minds  and  tempers,  it 
was  a  true  part  of  their  personal  gesture,  and  was 
something  they  could  not,  and  need  not,  do  anything 
about,  as  if  it  were  the  normal  tendency  in  them  in 
their  several  ways.  We  all  of  us  know  that  modern 
art  is  not  haphazard,  it  is  not  hit  or  miss  in  its  in 
tention  at  least,  certainly  not  the  outcome  of  oddity, 
of  whim,  or  of  eccentricity,  for  these  traits  belong 
to  the  superficial  and  cultivated.  We  have  found 
that  with  the  best  moderns  there  has  been  and  is 
inherent  in  them  the  same  sincerity  of  feeling,  the 
same  spirit  directing  their  research.  The  single  pe 
culiarity  of  modern  art  therefore,  if  such  there  be, 
is  its  special  relationship  to  the  time  in  which  it  is 
being  produced,  explicitly  of  this  age. 

What  we  know  of  the  men,  much  or  little,  proves 
that  they  are,  and  have  all  been,  simple  earnest  men, 
intelligent,  following  nowise  blindly  in  pursuit  of 
fresh  sensation,  excitement,  a  mere  phantasy,  or 
freak  of  the  mind.  It  was,  and  is,  the  product  of 
a  logic  essentially  of  themselves,  and  of  the  period 
they  represent;  and  because  this  period  is  not  the 
period  of  sentimentality  in  art,  but  a  period  striving 
toward  a  more  vigorous  type  of  values — something 
as  beautiful  as  the  machinery  of  our  time — it  is  not 
as  yet  to  any  great  degree  cared  for,  understood  nor, 

145 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

up  to  very  recently,  even  trusted.  It  has  destroyed 
old  fashioned  romance,  and  the  common  eye  has 
ceased  to  focus,  or  rather,  does  not  wish  to  con 
centrate  on  things  which  do  not  visualize  the  lit 
erary  sensation.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  struggle 
was  Henri  Rousseau,  the  real  and  only  naif  of  this 
time,  and  certainly  among  the  truest  of  all  times. 
As  much  as  a  man  can  remain  child,  Rousseau  re 
mained  the  child,  and  as  much  as  a  man  could  be 
naTve  and  childlike,  certainly  it  was  this  simple  artist 
who  remained  so. 

If  report  has  the  truth  correctly,  Rousseau  began 
his  career  as  painter  at  the  age  of  forty,  though  it 
is  quite  possible  and  probable  that  he  was  painting 
whenever  he  could,  in  his  untutored  fashion,  in  all 
of  his  spare  intervals,  and  with  but  one  object  in 
view  apparent:  to  give  forth  in  terms  of  painting 
those  phases  of  his  own  personal  life  which  remained 
indelibly  impressed  upon  his  memory,  pictorially  al 
ways  vivid  to  him,  as  in  his  pictures  they  are  seen  to 
be  the  scenes  or  incidents  of  loveliness  to  his  fine 
imagination.  We  find  them  covering  a  rather  wide 
range  of  experience,  apparently  in  two  places,  some 
where  in  the  tropics  of  Mexico,  and  Paris;  the  for 
mer,  experiences  of  youth  in  some  sort  of  govern 
mental  service  I  believe,  and  the  latter,  the  more  in 
timate  phases  of  life  about  him  in  Paris,  of  Paris 
herself  and  of  those  people  who  created  for  him 
the  intimacy  of  his  home  life,  and  the  life  which 

146 


HENRI  ROUSSEAU 

centered  about  the  charming  rue  de  Perelle  where 
he  lived. 

In  Rousseau  then,  we  have  one  of  the  finest  indi 
vidual  expressions  of  the  amateur  spirit  in  painting, 
taking  actually  a  place  among  the  examples  of  paint 
ings,  such  as  those  of  the  Kwakiutl  Indians,  or  the 
sculpture  of  the  Congo  people,  partaking  of  the 
very  same  quality  of  directness  and  simplicity,  and 
of  contact  with  the  prevailing  image  chosen  for  rep 
resentation.  He  was  too  evidently  the  product  of 
himself,  he  was  not  hybrid,  nor  was  he  in  any  sense 
something  strange  springing  up  out  of  the  soil  in 
the  dark  of  night,  he  was  not  mushroom.  He  did 
not  know  the  meaning  of  affectation,  and  I  doubt 
if  he  even  knew  what  was  meant  by  simplicity,  so 
much  was  he  that  element  himself. 

It  is  with  fascination  that  we  think  of  him  as 
living  his  life  out  after  his  discharge  for  incompe- 
tency  from  the  customs  service  outside  the  fortifica 
tions  of  Paris,  and  doubtless  with  the  strain  of  pov 
erty  upon  him  also,  within  a  ten  minutes'  walk  from 
the  world  famous  quartiers,  and  almost  certainly 
knowing  nothing  of  them.  That  there  was  a 
Julian's  or  a  Colarossi's  anywhere  about,  it  is  not 
likely  that  he  knew,  or  if  he  knew,  not  more  than 
vaguely.  He  drew  his  quaint  inspirations  directly 
from  the  sources  of  nature  and  some  pencil  drawings 
I  have  seen  prove  the  high  respect  and  admiration, 
amounting  to  love  and  worship,  which  he  had  for 

H7 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

nature  and  the  phenomena  of  her,  to  be  disclosed  at 
every  hedge. 

If  he  was  no  success  as  a  douanier,  he  was  learn 
ing  a  great  deal,  meanwhiles,  about  those  delicate 
and  radiant  skies  which  cover  Paris  at  all  times, 
charming  always  for  their  lightness  and  delicacy, 
pearl-like  in  their  quiet  splendour;  and  it  was  dur 
ing  this  service  of  his  at  the  city's  gates  that  he 
learned  his  lovely  sense  of  blacks  and  greys  and  sil 
vers,  of  which  Paris  offers  so  much  always,  and 
which  predominate  in  his  canvases.  Even  his  trop 
ical  scenes  strive  in  no  way  toward  artificiality  of 
effect,  but  give  rather  the  sense  of  their  profundity 
than  of  oddity,  of  their  depth  and  mystery  than  of 
peculiarity.  He  gives  us  the  sense  of  having  been 
at  home  in  them  in  his  imagination,  being  so  well 
at  home  in  those  scenes  of  Paris  which  were  daily 
life  to  him.  We  find  in  Rousseau  true  naivete, 
without  struggle,  real  child-likeness  of  attitude  and 
of  emotion,  following  diligently  with  mind  and  with 
spirit  the  forms  of  those  stored  images  that  have 
registered  themselves  with  directness  upon  the  area 
of  his  imagination,  never  to  be  forgotten,  rendered 
with  perfect  simplicity  for  us  in  these  quaint  pictures 
of  his,  superb  in  the  richness  of  quality  which  makes 
of  them,  what  they  are  to  the  eye  that  is  sympathetic 
to  them,  pictures  out  of  a  life  undisturbed  by  all 
the  machinations  and  intrigues  of  the  outer  world, 
a  life  intimate  with  itself,  remote  from  all  agencies 
having  no  direct  association  with  it,  living  with  a 

148 


HENRI  ROUSSEAU 

sweet  gift  of  enchantment  with  the  day's  disclo 
sures,  occupied  apparently  with  nothing  beyond  the 
loveliness  contained  in  them. 

There  is  not  once,  anywhere,  a  striving  of  the 
mind  in  the  work  of  this  simple  man.  It  was  a 
wealth  of  innocence  that  tinged  all  his  methods,  and 
his  pictures  are  as  simple  in  their  appeal  as  are  the 
declarations  of  Jacob  Boehme — they  are  the  songs 
of  innocence  and  experience  of  a  nature  for  whom 
all  the  world  was  beautiful,  and  have  about  them 
the  element  of  song  itself,  a  poetry  that  has  not  yet 
reached  the  shaping  of  words.  Who  looks  at  the 
pictures  of  this  true  and  charming  naif,  will  find 
nothing  to  wonder  at  beyond  this  extreme  simplicity, 
he  had  no  prescribed  attitude,  no  fixity  of  image  that 
characterizes  every  touch  of  school.  He  was  taught 
only  by  nature  and  consulted  only  her  relationships 
and  tendencies.  There  is  never  a  mistaking  of  that. 
Nature  was  his  influence,  and  he  saw  with  an  un 
trammelled  eye  the  elemental  shape  of  all  things, 
and  affixed  no  falsity  of  feeling,  or  anything,  to 
his  forms  which  might  have  detracted  from  their  ex 
treme  simplicity.  He  had  "first  sight,"  first  contact 
with  the  image,  and  sought  nothing  else  beyond  this, 
and  a  very  direct  correspondence  with  memories  dic 
tated  all  his  efforts. 

That  Rousseau  was  musical,  is  shown  in  the  nat 
ural  grace  of  his  compositions,  and  his  ideas  were 
simple  as  the  early  songs  of  France  are  simple, 
speaking  of  everyday  things  with  simple  heart  and 

149 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

voice,  and  he  painted  frankly  what  he  saw  in  pre 
cisely  the  way  he  saw  it.  We,  who  love  richness 
and  sobriety  of  tone,  will  never  tire  of  Rousseau's 
beautiful  blacks  and  greys,  and  probably  no  one  has 
excelled  them  for  delicacy  of  appreciation,  and  per 
fection  of  gradation.  It  will  be  long  before  the 
landscapes  will  be  forgotten,  it  will  be  long  before 
the  exquisite  portrait  of  the  "Child  with  the  Har 
lequin"  will  fade  from  remembrance,  we  shall  re 
member  them  all  for  their  loveliness  in  design,  a 
gift  which  never  failed  him,  no  matter  what  the 
subject.  Simple  arabesque,  it  was  the  jungle  that 
taught  him  this,  and  therein  lay  his  special  power, 
a  genuine  feeling  for  the  richness  of  laces  and  bro 
cades  in  full  and  subdued  tones,  such  as  one  would 
find  in  the  elaborate  intricacies  of  tropical  foliage, 
strange  leaves  intermingled  with  parrots,  monkeys, 
strange  white  lilies  on  high  stalks,  tigers  peering 
through  highly  ornate  foliage  and  branches  inter 
twined,  all  excellently  suggestive  of  that  foreign  land 
in  which  the  mind  wanders  and  finds  itself  so  much 
at  home. 

"Le  Charmeur,"  "Jadwigha,"  in  these  are  con 
centrated  all  that  is  lovely  in  the  land  of  legend; 
and,  like  all  places  of  legend,  replete  with  imagina 
tive  beauty,  the  places  where  loveliness  and  beauty 
of  form  congregate,  after  they  have  passed  through 
the  sensuous  spaces  of  the  eye  travelling  somewhere 
to  an  abode  where  all  those  things  are  that  are  per 
fect,  they  live  forever.  Rousseau  was  a  charming 

150 


HENRI  ROUSSEAU 

and  lovable  child,  whether  he  was  painting  or 
whether  he  was  conducting  his  own  little  orchestra, 
composed  of  those  people  who  kept  shop  around  his 
home,  and  it  is  as  the  child  of  his  time  that  he  must 
be  considered,  child  in  verity  among  the  sophisti 
cated  moderns  who  believed  and  believe  more  in 
intellect  than  in  anything  else,  many  of  whom  paid 
tribute  to  him,  and  reverenced  him,  either  in  terms 
of  sincere  friendship,  or  by  occasional  visit.  The 
various  anecdotes,  touching  enough,  are  but  further 
proof  of  the  innocence  of  this  so  simple  and  untu 
tored  person. 

The  real  amateur  spirit  has,  we  like  to  think,  much 
in  its  favor,  if  only  for  its  freshness,  its  spontaneity, 
and  a  very  gratifying  naturalness.  Rousseau  was 
all  of  this,  and  lived  in  a  world  untouched,  he  wove 
about  himself,  like  other  visionaries,  a  soft  veil  hid 
ing  all  that  was  grossly  unreal  to  him  from  all  that 
was  real,  and  for  Rousseau,  those  things  and  places 
he  expressed  existed  vividly  for  him,  and  out  of 
them  his  pictures  became  true  creations.  He  was 
the  real  naif,  because  he  was  the  real  child,  unaf 
fected  and  unspoiled,  and  painting  was  for  him  but 
the  key  of  heaven  that  he  might  open  another  door 
for  the  world's  weary  eye. 


15* 


PART   TWO 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  ACROBAT 

WHERE  is  our  once  charming  acrobat — our  min 
strel  of  muscular  music  ?  What  has  become  of  these 
groups  of  fascinating  people  gotten  up  in  silk  and 
spangle?  Who  may  the  evil  genius  be  who  has 
taken  them  and  their  fascinating  art  from  our  stage, 
who  the  ogre  of  taste  that  has  dispensed  with  them 
and  their  charm?  How  seldom  it  is  in  these  times 
that  one  encounters  them,  as  formerly  when  they 
were  so  much  the  charming  part  of  our  lighter  en 
tertainment.  What  are  they  doing  since  popular 
and  fickle  notions  have  removed  them  from  our 
midst? 

It  is  two  years  since  I  have  seen  the  American 
stage.  I  used  to  say  to  myself  in  other  countries, 
at  least  America  is  the  home  of  real  variety  and  the 
real  lover  of  the  acrobat.  But  I  hear  no  one  say 
ing  much  for  him  these  days,  and  for  his  charming 
type  of  art. 

What  has  become  of  them  all,  the  graceful  little 
lady  of  the  slack  wire,  those  charming  and  lovely 
figures  that  undulate  upon  the  air  by  means  of  the 
simple  trapeze,  those  fascinating  ensembles  and  all 
the  various  types  of  melodic  muscular  virtuosity? 

We  have  been  given  much,  of  late,  of  that  vir 
tuosity  of  foot  and  leg  which  is  usually  called  danc- 

155 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

ing;  and  that  is  excellent  among  us  here,  quite  the 
contribution  of  the  American,  so  singularly  the  prod- 
duct  of  this  special  physique.  Sometimes  I  think 
there  are  no  other  dancers  but  Americans.  It  used 
to  be  so  delightful  a  diversion  watching  our  acro 
bat  and  his  group  with  their  strong  and  graceful 
bodies  writhing  with  rhythmical  certitude  over  a  bar 
or  upon  a  trapeze  against  a  happily  colored  space. 
Now  we  get  little  more  in  the  field  of  acrobatics 
beyond  a  varied  buck  and  wing;  everything  seems 
tuxedoed  for  drawing  room  purposes.  We  get  no 
more  than  a  decent  handspring  or  two,  an  over- 
elaborated  form  of  split.  It  all  seems  to  be  over 
with  our  once  so  fashionable  acrobat.  There  is  no 
end  of  good  stepping,  as  witness  the  Cohan  Revue, 
a  dancing  team  in  Robinson  Crusoe,  Jr.,  and  "Archie 
and  Bertie"  (I  think  they  call  themselves).  This 
in  itself  might  be  called  the  modern  American  school : 
the  elongated  and  elastic  gentleman  who  finds  his 
co-operator  among  the  thin  ones  of  his  race,  ar 
tistically  speaking.  I  did  not  get  to  the  circus  this 
year,  much  to  my  regret;  perhaps  I  would  have 
found  my  lost  genius  there,  among  the  animals  dis 
porting  themselves  in  less  charitable  places.  But 
we  cannot  follow  the  circus  naturally,  and  these  min 
strel  folk  are  disappearing  rapidly.  Variety  seems 
quite  to  have  given  them  up  and  replaced  them  with 
often  very  tiresome  and  mediocre  acts  of  singing. 

How  can  one   forget,   for  instance,  the  Famille 
Bouvier  who  used  to  appear  regularly  at  the  fetes 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  ACROBAT 

in  the  streets  of  Paris  in  the  summer  season,  living 
all  of  them  in  a  roving  gipsy  wagon  as  is  the  custom 
of  these  fete  people.  What  a  charming  moment  it 
was  always  to  see  the  simple  but  well  built  Mile. 
Jeanne  of  twenty-two  pick  up  her  stalwart  and  beau 
tifully  proportioned  brother  of  nineteen,  a  strong, 
broad-shouldered,  manly  chap,  and  balance  him  on 
one  hand  upright  in  the  air.  It  was  a  classic  mo 
ment  in  the  art  of  the  acrobat,  interesting  to  watch 
the  father  of  them  all  training  the  fragile  bodies  of 
the  younger  boys  and  girls  to  the  systematic  move 
ment  of  the  business  while  the  mother  sat  in  the 
doorway  of  the  caravan  nursing  the  youngest  at 
the  breast,  no  doubt  the  perfect  future  acrobat. 
And  how  charming  it  was  to  look  in  at  the  doors  of 
these  little  houses  on  wheels  and  note  the  excellent 
domestic  order  of  them,  most  always  with  a  canary 
or  a  linnet  at  the  curtained  window  and  at  least  one 
cat  or  dog  or  maybe  both.  This  type  is  the  pro 
genitor  of  our  stage  acrobat,  it  is  the  primitive  stage 
of  these  old-time  troubadours,  and  it  is  still  prevalent 
in  times  of  peace  in  France.  The  strong  man  got 
ten  in  tawdry  pink  tights  and  much  worn  black  vel 
vet  with  his  very  elaborate  and  drawn  out  speeches, 
in  delicate  French,  concerning  the  marvels  of  his  art 
and  the  long  wait  for  the  stipulated  number  of  dix 
centimes  pieces  before  his  marvellous  demonstration 
could  begin.  This  is,  so  to  say,  the  vagabond  ele 
ment  of  our  type  of  entertainment,  the  wandering 
minstrel  who  keeps  generation  after  generation  to 

157 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

the  art  of  his  forefathers,  this  fine  old  art  of  the 
pavement  and  the  open  country  road.  But  we  look 
for  our  artist  in  vain  these  days,  those  groups  whose 
one  art  is  the  exquisite  rhythmical  display  of  the 
human  body,  concerted  muscular  melody.  We  can 
not  find  him  on  the  street  in  the  shade  of  a  stately 
chestnut  tree  as  once  in  Paris  we  found  him  at  least 
twice  a  year,  and  we  seek  him  in  vain  in  our  mod 
ern  music  hall. 

Is  our  acrobatic  artist  really  gone  to  his  esthetic 
death;  has  he  given  his  place  permanently  to  the 
ever  present  singing  lady  who  is  always  telling  you 
who  her  modiste  is,  sings  a  sentimental  song  or  two 
and  then  disappears;  to  the  sleek  little  gentleman 
who  dances  off  a  moment  or  two  to  the  tune  of  his 
doll-like  partner  whose  voice  is  usually  littler  than 
his  own?  Perhaps  our  acrobat  is  still  the  delight 
of  those  more  characteristic  audiences  of  the  road 
whose  taste  is  less  fickle,  less  blase.  This  is  so 
much  the  case  with  the  arts  in  America — the  fash 
ions  change  with  the  season's  end  and  there  is  never 
enough  of  novelty;  dancing  is  already  dying  out, 
skating  will  not  prevail  for  long  among  the  idle; 
what  shall  we  predict  for  our  variety  which  is  in  its 
last  stages  of  boredom  for  us? 

I  suspect  the  so-called  politeness  of  vaudeville  of 
the  elimination  of  our  once  revered  acrobats.  The 
circus  notion  has  been  replaced  by  the  parlor  enter 
tainment  notion.  Who  shall  revive  them  for  us, 
who  admire  their  simple  and  unpretentious  art;  why 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  ACROBAT 

is  there  not  someone  among  the  designers  with  suf 
ficient  interest  in  this  type  of  beauty  to  make  attrac 
tive  settings  for  them,  so  that  we  may  be  able  to 
enjoy  them  at  their  best,  which  in  the  theater  we 
have  never  quite  been  able  to  do — designs  that  will 
in  some  way  add  luster  to  an  already  bright  and 
pleasing  show  of  talents. 

I  can  see,  for  instance,  a  young  and  attractive  girl 
bareback  rider  on  a  cantering  white  horse  inscrib 
ing  wondrous  circles  upon  a  stage  exquisitely  in 
harmony  with  herself  and  her  white  or  black  horse 
as  the  case  might  be;  a  rich  cloth  of  gold  backdrop 
carefully  suffused  with  rose.  There  could  be  noth 
ing  handsomer,  for  example,  than  young  and  grace 
ful  trapezists  swinging  melodically  in  turquoise  blue 
doublets  against  a  fine  peacock  background  or  it 
might  be  a  rich  pale  coral — all  the  artificial  and  spec 
tacular  ornament  dispensed  with.  We  are  expected 
to  get  an  exceptional  thrill  when  some  dull  person 
appears  before  a  worn  velvet  curtain  to  expatiate 
with  inappropriate  gesture  upon  a  theme  of  Chopin 
or  of  Beethoven,  ideas  and  attitudes  that  have  noth 
ing  whatsoever  to  do  with  the  musical  intention;  yet 
our  acrobat  whose  expression  is  certainly  as  attrac 
tive,  if  not  much  more  so  generally,  has  always  to 
perform  amid  fatigued  settings  of  the  worst  sort 
against  red  velvet  of  the  most  depraved  shade  pos 
sible.  We  are  tired  of  the  elaborately  costumed 
person  whose  charms  are  trivial  and  insignificant, 
we  are  well  tired  also  of  the  ordinary  gentleman 

159 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

dancer  and  of  the  songwriter,  we  are  bored  to  ex 
tinction  by  the  perfectly  dull  type  of  playlet  which 
features  some  well  known  legitimate  star  for  ille 
gitimate  reasons.  Our  plea  is  for  the  re-creation 
of  variety  into  something  more  conducive  to  light 
pleasure  for  the  eye,  something  more  conducive  to 
pleasing  and  stimulating  enjoyment.  Perhaps  the 
reinstatement  of  the  acrobat,  this  revival  of  a  really 
worthy  kind  of  expression,  would  effect  the  change, 
relieve  the  monotony.  The  argument  is  not  too 
trivial  to  present,  since  the  spectator  is  that  one  for 
whom  the  diversion  is  provided. 

I  hear  cries  all  about  from  people  who  once  were 
fond  of  theater  and  music  hall  that  there  is  an  in 
conceivable  dullness  pervading  the  stage;  the  habit 
ual  patron  can  no  longer  endure  the  offerings  of  the 
present  time  with  a  degree  of  pleasure,  much  less 
with  ease.  It  has  ceased  to  be  what  it  once  was, 
what  its  name  implies.  If  the  old  school  inclined 
toward  the  rough  too  much,  then  certainly  the  new 
inclines  distressingly  toward  the  refined — the  stage 
that  once  was  so  full  of  knockabout  is  now  so  full 
of  stand-still;  variety  that  was  once  a  joy  is  now 
a  bore.  Just  some  uninteresting  songs  at  the  piano 
before  a  giddy  drop  is  not  enough  these  days;  and 
there  are  too  many  of  such.  There  is  need  of  a 
greater  activity  for  the  eye.  The  return  of  the 
acrobat  in  a  more  modern  dress  would  be  the  ap 
propriate  acquisition,  for  we  still  have  appreciation 

1 60 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  ACROBAT 

for  all  those  charming  geometries  of  the  trapeze,  the 
bar,  and  the  wire. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  these  men  will  return  to 
us,  stimulating  anew  their  delightful  kind  of  poetry 
of  the  body  and  saving  our  variety  performances 
from  the  prevailing  plague  of  monotone. 


161 


VAUDEVILLE 

I  HAVE  but  recently  returned  from  the  vaudeville 
of  the  centuries.  Watching  the  kick  and  the  glide 
of  very  ancient  performers.  I  have  spent  a  year 
and  a  half  down  in  the  wonderful  desert  country  of 
the  Southwest.  I  have  wearied,  however,  of  the 
ancient  caprice,  and  turn  with  great  delight  to  my 
old  passion,  vaudeville.  I  return  with  glee  to  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  and  pet  animals  of  the  stage, 
including  the  acrobats.  Is  there  one  who  cares  for 
these  artists  and  for  their  rhythmical  gesture  more 
than  myself?  I  cannot  think  so.  I  have  wished 
with  a  real  desire  to  create  new  sets  for  them,  to 
establish  an  altogether  new  tradition  as  regards  the 
background  of  these  charming  artists.  If  that  were 
the  chosen  field  for  my  esthetic  activities,  I  should 
be  famous  by  now  for  the  creation  of  sets  and  drops 
by  which  these  exceptional  artists  might  make  a 
far  more  significant  impression  upon  the  type  of 
public  they  essay  to  interest  and  amuse. 

I  would  begin  first  of  all  by  severing  them  from 
the  frayed  traditions  of  worn  plush  and  sequin,  rid 
them  of  the  so  inadequate  back  drop  such  as  is  given 
them,  the  scene  of  Vesuvius  in  eruption,  or  the  walk 
in  the  park  at  Versailles.  They  need  first  of  all 
large  plain  spaces  upon  which  to  perform,  and  enjoy 

162 


VAUDEVILLE 

their  own  remarkably  devised  patterns  of  body.  1 
speak  of  the  acrobats,  the  animals,  the  single  and 
double  dancers  who  perform  "down  in  one"  more 
especially.  The  so  called  headliners  have  their 
plush  parlours  with  the  inevitable  purple  or  rose 
lamp,  and  the  very  much  worn  property  piano  just 
barely  in  tune.  Only  the  dressmaker  and  the  in 
terior  decorator  can  do  things  for  them,  as  we  see 
in  the  case  of  Kitty  Gordon.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that 
a  Beardsley  of  the  stage  will  one  day  appear  and 
really  do  something  for  the  dainty  type  of  person 
or  the  superbly  theatric  artist  such  as  Miss  Gordon, 
Valeska  Suratt,  and  the  few  other  remarkable 
women  of  the  vaudeville  stage. 

I  am  more  concerned  with  the  less  appreciated 
artists.  I  would  see  that  they  glitter  by  their  own 
brilliance.  Why,  for  instance,  should  a  fine  act  like 
the  Four  Danubes  and  others  of  their  quality  be 
tagged  on  to  the  end  of  a  bill,  at  which  time  the 
unmannerly  public  decides  to  go  home  or  hurry  to 
some  roof  or  other,  or  dining  place? 

I  should  like  seeing  the  Brothers  Rath  likewise, 
perhaps  as  refined  acrobatic  artists  as  have  been  seen 
on  our  stage  for  some  time,  in  a  set  that  would 
show  them  to  better  advantage,  and 'give  the  public 
a  greater  intimacy  with  the  beauty  of  their  act  than 
can  be  had  beyond  the  first  six  rows  of  the  Winter 
Garden.  They  are  interposed  there  as  a  break  be 
tween  burlesques,  which  is  not  the  place  for  them. 
I  would  "give"  them  the  stage  while  they  are  on 

163 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

it.  Theirs  is  a  muscular  beauty  which  has  not  been 
excelled.  I  have  no  doubt  that  if  I  attempted  to  es 
tablish  these  ideas  with  the  artists  whom  I  spend 
so  much  time  in  championing,  they  would  no  doubt 
turn  aside  with  the  word  "highbrow"  on  their  lips. 
They  would  have  to  be  shown  that  they  need  these 
things,  that  they  need  the  old-fashioned  ideas  re 
moved,  and  fresher  ones  put  in  their  place.  I  have 
expressed  this  intention  once  before  in  print,  per 
haps  not  so  vehemently.  I  should  like  to  elabor 
ate.  I  want  a  Metropolitan  Opera  for  my  project. 
An  orchestra  of  that  size  for  the  larger  concerted 
groups,  numbers  of  stringed  instruments  for  the 
wirewalkers  and  jugglers,  a  series  of  balanced  wood 
winds  for  others,  and  so  on  down  the  line,  accord 
ing  to  the  quality  of  the  performer.  There  should 
be  a  large  stage  for  many  elephants,  ponies,  dogs, 
tigers,  seals.  The  stage  should  then  be  made  more 
intimate  for  the  solos,  duets,  trios,  and  quartets 
among  the  acrobats.  I  think  a  larger  public  should 
be  made  aware  of  the  beauty  and  skill  of  these  peo 
ple,  who  spend  their  lives  in  perfecting  grace  and 
power  of  body,  creating  the  always  fascinating  pat 
tern  and  form,  orchestration  if  you  will,  the  orches 
tration  of  the  muscles  into  a  complete  whole.  You 
will  of  course  say,  go  to  the  circus,  and  get  it  all 
at  once.  The  circus  is  one  of  the  most  charming 
places  in  existence,  because  it  is  one  of  the  last  words 
in  orchestrated  physical  splendour.  But  the  circus 
is  too  diffused,  too  enormous  in  this  country  to  per- 

164 


VAUDEVILLE 

mit  of  concentrated  interest,  attention,  or  pleasure. 
One  goes  away  with  many  little  bits.  It  is  because 
the  background  is  made  up  of  restless  nervous  dots, 
all  anxious  to  get  the  combined  quota  which  they 
have  paid  for,  when  in  reality  they  do  not  even  get 
any  one  thing.  It  is  the  alert  eye  which  can  go 
over  three  rings  and  two  stages  at  once  and  enjoy 
the  pattern  of  each  of  them.  It  is  a  physical  im 
possibility  really. 

I  think  we  should  be  made  aware  in  finer  ways 
of  the  artists  who  open  and  close  our  bills.  Why 
must  the  headliner  always  be  a  talking  or  a  singing 
person  who  tells  you  how  much  money  he  needs,  or 
how  much  she  is  getting?  There  is  more  than  one 
type  of  artistic  personality  for  those  who  care  for 
vaudeville.  Why  doesn't  a  team  like  the  Rath 
Brothers,  for  example,  find  itself  the  feature  at 
traction?  Must  there  always  be  the  string  of  un 
necessary  little  men  and  women  who  have  such  a 
time  trying  to  fill  up  their  twenty-two  minutes  or 
their  fourteen?  Why  listen  forever  to  puppy-like 
song  writers  when  one  can  hear  and  watch  a  great 
artist  like  Ella  Shields?  My  third  visit  to  Ella 
Shields  convinces  me  that  she  is  one  of  the  finest 
artists  I  have  ever  heard,  certainly  as  fine  in  her  way 
as  Guilbert  and  Chevalier  were.  It  is  a  rare  priv 
ilege  to  be  able  to  enjoy  artists  like  Grock — Mark 
Sheridan — who  is  now  dead,  I  am  told.  Mark, 
with  his  uThey  all  walk  the  wibbly-wobbly  walk, 
they  all  wear  the  wibbly-wobbly  ties,"  and  so  on. 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

Mark  is  certainly  being  missed  by  a  great  many 
who  care  for  the  pleasure  of  the  moment.  When  I 
look  at  and  listen  to  the  aristocratic  artist  Ella 
Shields,  I  feel  a  quality  in  her  of  the  impeccable 
Mrs.  Fiske.  And  then  I  am  thinking  of  another 
great  woman,  Fay  Templeton.  What  a  pity  we 
must  lose  them  either  by  death  or  by  decisions  in 
life.  Ella  Shields  with  her  charming  typification 
of  "Burlington  Bertie  from  Bow." 

The  other  evening  as  I  listened  to  Irene  Frank 
lin,  I  heard  for  certain  what  I  had  always  thought 
were  notes  from  the  magic  voice  of  dear  old  Fay. 
Unforgettable  Fay.  How  can  one  ever  say  enough 
about  her?  I  think  of  Fay  along  with  my  single 
glimpses  of  Duse,  Ada  Rehan,  Coquelin.  You  see 
how  I  love  her,  then.  Irene  Franklin  has  the  qual 
ity  of  imitation  of  the  great  Fay  without,  I  think, 
the  real  magic.  Nevertheless  I  enjoy  her,  and  I 
am  certain  she  has  never  been  finer  than  now.  She 
has  enriched  herself  greatly  by  her  experiences  the 
last  two  years,  and  seems  at  the  height  of  her  power. 
It  was  good  to  get,  once  again,  little  glimpses  of 
her  Childs  waitress  and  the  chambermaid.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  there  was  a  richer  quality  of  at 
mosphere  in  the  little  Jewish  girl  with  the  ring  curls 
and  the  red  mittens,  as  also  in  her  French  girl  with, 
by  the  way,  a  beautiful  gown  of  rich  yellow  silk 
Frenchily  trimmed  in  vermilion  or  orange,  I  couldn't 
make  out  which.  The  amusing  French  girl,  who 
having  picked  up  many  fag-ends  of  English  from 

166 


VAUDEVILLE 

her  experience  with  the  soldats  Americains — got 
her  "animals"  mixed — "you  have  my  goat,  I  have 
your  goat,  et — tie  ze  bull  outside,"  and  so  on.  I 
am  crossing  Irene  and  Fay  here  because  I  think  them 
similar,  only  I  must  say  I  think  the  magic  was  greater 
in  Fay,  because  possibly  Fay  was  the  greater  stu 
dent  of  emotion.  Fay  had  the  undercurrent,  and 
Irene  has  perfected  the  surface.  If  Irene  did  study 
Fay  at  any  time,  and  I  say  this  respectfully,  she  per 
haps  knows  that  Fay  went  many  times  to  Paris  to 
study  Rejane.  The  light  entertainer  is,  as  we  know, 
very  often  a  person  of  real  intellect. 

If  you  want  distinction,  then,  you  will  get  it  in 
the  presence  of  Ella  Shields.  Her  "Burlington 
Bertie"  is  nothing  less  than  a  chef  d'oeuvre;  "Tom 
Lipton,  he's  got  lots  of  'oof — he  sleeps  on  the  roof, 
and  I  sleep  in  the  room  over  him."  Bertie,  who, 
having  been  slapped  on  the  back  by  the  Prince  of 
Wales  (and  some  others)  and  asked  why  he  didn't 
go  and  dine  with  "Mother,"  replied — "I  can't,  for 
I've  just  had  a  banana  with  Lady  Diana.  .  .  .  I'm 
Burlington  Bertie  from  Bow."  Miss  Shields  shows 
also  that  she  can  sing  a  sentimental  song  without 
slushing  it  all  over  with  saccharine.  She  has  mas 
tered  the  droll  English  quality  of  wit  with  real  per 
fection.  I  regret  I  never  saw  Vesta  Tilley,  with 
whom  the  old  tops  compare  her  so  favourably.  Su 
perb  girls  all  these,  Fay,  Ella,  Cissie,  Vesta,  as  well 
as  Marie  Lloyd,  and  the  other  inimitable  Vesta — 
Victoria. 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

Among  the  "coming  soon,"  we  have  Miss  Juliet, 
whom  I  recall  with  so  much  pleasure  from  the  last 
immemorable  Cohan  Revue.  I  wait  for  her.  I 
consider  myself  fortunate  to  be  let  in  on  James 
Watts.  We  thought  our  Eddy  Foy  a  comic  one. 
He  was,  for  I  remember  the  Gibson  girl  with  the 
black  velvet  gown  and  the  red  flannel  undershirt.  I 
swing  my  swagger  stick  in  the  presence  of  Mr. 
Watts  by  way  of  applause.  His  art  is  very  deli 
cately  understood  and  brought  out.  It  has  a  fine 
quality  of  broad  caricature  with  a  real  knowledge 
of  economy  such  as  Crock  is  master  of.  The  three 
episodes  are  certainly  funny  enough.  I  find  myself 
caring  more  for  the  first,  called  "June  Day,"  since 
he  reminds  me  so  strongly  in  make-up  of  the  French 
caricaturists  in  drawing,  Rouveyre  and  Toulouse- 
Lautrec.  Mr.  Watts's  feeling  for  satirical  make-up 
is  a  fine  shade  of  artistry  in  itself.  He  has  excel 
lent  feeling  for  the  broad  contrast  and  for  fierce 
insinuation  at  the  same  time.  If  you  want  real  un 
alloyed  fun,  Mr.  Watts  will  supply  you.  Nor  will 
Crock  disappoint  you.  Quite  on  the  contrary,  no 
matter  what  you  are  expecting. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  think  of  vaudeville  as  I  think 
of  a  collection  of  good  drawings.  Unless  it  is  be 
cause  the  sense  of  form  is  the  same  in  all  of  the  arts. 
The  acrobat  certainly  has  line  and  mass  to  think  of, 
even  if  that  isn't  his  primal  concern.  He  knowsjiow 
he  decorates  the  space  on  which  he  operates.  To 
make  another  comparison,  then,  Crock  is  the  Forain 

168 


VAUDEVILLE 

of  vaudeville.  He  achieves  great  plastic  beauty 
with  distinguished  economy  of  means.  He  dis 
penses  with  all  superfluous  gesture,  as  does  the  great 
French  illustrator.  Crock  is  entirely  right  about 
clownery.  You  are  either  funny  or  you  are  not. 
No  amount  of  study  will  produce  the  gift  for  hu 
mour.  It  is  there,  or  it  isn't.  Crock's  gift  for  mu 
sicianship  is  a  singular  combination  to  find  with  the 
rest  of  his  artistry.  It  goes  with  the  remarkably 
refined  look  in  his  face,  however,  as  he  sits  upon 
the  back  of  the  seatless  chair,  and  plays  the  little 
concertina  with  superb  execution.  There  are  no 
"jumps"  in  Crock's  performance.  His  moods  flow 
from  one  into  another  with  a  masterly  smoothness, 
and  you  are  aware  when  he  is  finished  that  you  have 
never  seen  that  sort  of  foolery  before.  Not  just 
that  sort.  It  is  the  good  mind  that  satisfies,  as  in 
the  case  of  James  Watts,  and  Miss  Shields. 

From  elephants  carrying  in  their  trunks  chate 
laines  of  Shetland  ponies,  curtseying  at  the  close  of 
the  charming  act  like  a  pretty  miss  at  her  first  com 
ing  out,  to  such  work  as  the  Four  Danubes  give  you 
as  the  closing  number,  with  Irene  as  a  lead,  you 
are,  to  say  the  least,  carried  over  the  dreadful  spots, 
such  as  the  young  man  who  sways  out  like  a  burlesque 
queen  and  tells  you  whom  he  was  with  before  Keith 
got  him.  His  name  should  be  "Pusher,"  "Advance 
Man,"  or  something  of  that  sort,  and  not  artist. 
What  he  gives  you,  you  could  find  just  as  well  if  not 
better  done  on  Fourteenth  Street.  He  has  a  rib- 

169 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

bon-counter,  adenoid  voice  .production  that  no  really 
fine  artist  could  afford.  He  will  "get  by,"  because 
anything  does,  apparently. 

One  turns  to  the  big  artist  for  relief,  even  though 
minor  artists  like  The  Brown  Sisters  charm  so  surely 
with  their  ivory  and  silver  diamond-studded  accor 
dions,  giving  very  pleasing  transitions  from  grave  to 
gay  in  arias  and  tunes  we  know.  Accordions  and 
concertinas  are  very  beautiful  to  me,  when  played 
by  artists  like  these  girls,  and  by  such  as  Joe  Caw- 
thorne,  and  Crock. 

There  are  more  dancing  men  of  quality  this  sea 
son,  it  seems  to  me,  who  are  obscured  by  dancing 
ladies  of  fame,  and  not  such  warrantable  artistry. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  male  anatomy  allows  of  greater 
eccentricity  and  playfulness.  There  are  no  girls  who 
have  just  such  laughing  legs  as  the  inimitable  Fran 
ces  White.  It  is  the  long-legged  American  boy  who 
beats  the  world  in  this  sort  of  thing. 

The  lovely  bit  of  hockey  which  James  Barton 
gives  is  for  me  far  more  distinguished  than  all  the 
rest  of  his  work  in  the  Winter  Garden  Revue.  He 
is  a  real  artist,  but  it  is  work  that  one  sees  rather  a 
deal  of  this  season,  whereas  the  hockey  dance  is  like 
nothing  else  to  be  found.  A  lovely  moment  of 
rhythmic  leg  work.  We  are  now  thoroughly  fa 
miliar  with  the  stage  drunk,  as  we  have  long  been 
familiarized  by  Weber  and  Fields  with  the  stage 
Jew,  which  is  fortunately  passing  out  for  lack  of 
artist  to  present  it.  Leon  Errol  is  good  for  once, 

170 


VAUDEVILLE 

even  twice.  He  is  quite  alone  in  his  very  witty 
falls  and  runs.  They  are  full  of  the  struggle  of 
the  drunk  to  regain  his  character  and  manhood.  The 
act  lives  on  a  very  flat  plane  otherwise.  It  has  no 
roundness. 

I  have  come  on  my  list  to  Mijares  and  Co.,  in 
"Monkey  Business."  We  have  the  exquisite  cri 
terion  always  for  the  wire,  in  the  perfect  Bird  Mill- 
man.  "Monkey  Business"  is  a  very  good  act,  and 
both  men  do  excellent  work  on  the  taut  and  slack 
wire.  "Monkey,"  in  this  case  being  a  man,  does 
as  beautiful  a  piece  of  work  as  I  know  of.  I  have 
never  seen  a  back  somersault  upon  a  high  wire.  I 
have  never  heard  of  it  before.  There  may  be  whole 
generations  of  artists  gifted  in  this  particular  stunt. 
You  have  here,  nevertheless,  a  moment  of  very  great 
beauty  in  the  cleanness  of  this  man's  surprising  agil 
ity  and  sureness.  The  monkey  costume  hinders  the 
beauty  of  the  thing.  It  should  be  done  with  pale 
blue  silk  tights  against  a  cherry  velvet  drop,  or  else 
in  deep  ultramarine  on  an  old  gold  background. 

The  acrobatic  novelty  called  "The  Legrohs"  re 
lies  chiefly  on  its  most  exceptional  member,  who 
would  be  complete  without  the  other  two.  He  is 
most  decidedly  a  virtuoso  in  vaudeville.  Very 
gifted,  certainly,  if  at  moments  a  little  disconcerting 
in  the  flexibility  and  the  seemingly  uncertain  turns 
of  his  body.  It  is  the  old-fashioned  contortionism 
saved  by  charming  acrobatic  variations.  This  "Le- 
groh"  knows  how  to  make  a  superb  pattern  with 

171 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

his  body,  and  the  things  he  does  with  it  are  done  with 
such  ease  and  skill  as  to  make  you  forget  the  actual 
physical  effort  and  you  are  lost  for  the  time  being 
in  the  beauty  of  this  muscular  kaleidoscopic  bril 
liancy.  You  feel  it  is  like  "puzzle — find  the  man" 
for  a  time,  but  then  you  follow  his  exquisite  changes 
from  one  design  into  another  with  genuine  delight, 
and  appreciate  his  excessive  grace  and  easy  rapidity. 
He  gives  you  chiefly  the  impression  of  a  dragon-fly 
blown  in  the  wind  of  a  brisk  morning  over  cool 
stretches  of  water.  You  would  expect  him  to  land 
on  a  lily-pad  any  moment  and  smooth  his  wings 
with  his  needle-like  legs. 

So  it  is  the  men  and  women  of  vaudeville  trans 
form  themselves  into  lovely  flower  and  animal  forms, 
and  the  animals  take  on  semblances  of  human  sen 
sibility  in  vaudeville.  It  is  the  superb  arabesque  of 
the  beautiful  human  body  that  I  care  for  most,  and 
get  the  most  from  in  these  cameo-like  bits  of  beauty 
and  art.  So  brief  they  are,  and  like  the  wonders 
of  sea  gardens  as  you  look  through  the  glass  bottoms 
of  the  little  boats.  So  like  the  wonders  of  the 
microscopic,  full  of  surprising  novelties  of  colour 
and  form.  So  like  the  kaleidoscope  in  the  ever 
changing,  ever  shifting  bits  of  colour  reflecting  each 
other,  falling  into  new  patterns  with  each  twist  of 
the  toy.  If  you  care  for  the  iridescence  of  the 
moment  you  will  trust  vaudeville  as  you  are  not  able 
to  trust  any  other  sort  of  a  performance.  You 
have  no  chance  for  the  fatigue  of  problem.  You 

172 


VAUDEVILLE 

are  at  rest  as  far  as  thinking  is  concerned.  It  is 
something  for  the  eye  first  and  last.  It  is  some 
thing  for  the  ear  now  and  then,  only  very  seldomly, 
however.  For  me,  they  are  the  saviours  of  the  dull 
est  art  in  existence,  the  art  of  the  stage.  Duse  was 
quite  right  about  it.  The  stage  should  be  swept  of 
actors.  It  is  not  a  place  for  imitation  and  pho 
tography.  It  is  a  place  for  the  laughter  of  the 
senses,  for  the  laughter  of  the  body.  It  is  a  place 
for  the  tumbling  blocks  of  the  brain  to  fall  in  heaps. 
I  give  first  place  to  the  acrobat  and  his  associates 
because  it  is  the  art  where  the  human  mind  is  for 
once  relieved  of  its  stupidity.  The  acrobat  is  mas 
ter  of  his  body  and  he  lets  his  brain  go  a-roving 
upon  other  matters,  if  he  has  one.  He  is  expected 
to  be  silent.  He  would  agree  with  William  James, 
transposing  "music  prevents  thinking"  into  "talking 
prevents  silence."  In  so  many  instances,  it  pre 
vents  conversation.  That  is  why  I  like  tea  chit 
chat.  Words  are  never  meant  to  mean  anything 
then.  They  are  simply  given  legs  and  wings,  and 
they  jump  and  fly.  They  land  where  they  can,  and 
fall  flat  if  they  must.  The  audience  that  patronizes 
vaudeville  would  do  well  to  be  present  at  most  first 
numbers,  and  remain  for  most  or  many  of  the  clos 
ing  ones.  A  number,  I  repeat,  like  the  Four  Dan- 
ubes,  should  not  be  snubbed  by  any  one. 

I  have  seen  recently,  then,  by  way  of  summary, 
four  fine  bits  of  artistry  in  vaudeville — Ella  Shields, 
James  Watts,  the  Brothers  Rath,  and  the  Four  Dan- 

173 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

ubes.  I  shall  speak  again  of  these  people.  They 
are  well  worth  it.  They  turn  pastime  into  perfect 
memory.  They  are,  therefore,  among  the  great  ar 
tists. 


174 


A  CHARMING  EQUESTRIENNE 

I  AM  impelled  to  portray,  at  this  time,  my  devo 
tion  to  the  little  equestrienne,  by  the  presence  of  a 
traveling  circus  in  these  lofty  altitudes  in  which  I 
am  now  living,  seven  thousand  feet  above  the  sea, 
in  our  great  southwest.  The  mere  sight  of  this 
master  of  the  miniature  ring,  with  all  the  atmos 
phere  of  the  tent  about  him,  after  almost  insur 
mountable  difficulties  crossing  the  mountains,  over 
through  the  canyons  of  this  expansive  country,  de 
livering  an  address  in  excellently  chosen  English, 
while  poised  at  a  considerable  height  on  the  wire,  to 
the  multitude  on  the  ground  below  him,  during  which 
time  he  is  to  give  what  is  known  as  the  "free  ex 
hibit"  as  a  high  wire  artist — all  this  turns  me  once 
more  to  the  ever  charming  theme  of  acrobatics  in 
general  and  equestrianism  in  particular,  and  it  is  of 
a  special  genius  in  this  field  that  I  wish  to  speak. 

I  have  always  been  a  lover  of  these  artists  of 
bodily  vigour,  of  muscular  melody,  as  I  like  to  call 
it.  As  I  watched  this  ringmaster  of  the  little  trav 
eling  circus,  this  master  mountebank  of  the  sturdy 
figure,  ably  poised  upon  his  head  on  the  high  wire, 
outlined  against  the  body  of  the  high  mountain  in 
the  near  distance,  about  which  the  thunder  clouds 
were  huddling,  and  in  and  out  of  which  the  light- 

175 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

ning  was  sharply  playing,  it  all  formed  for  me  an 
other  of  those  perfect  sensations  from  that  phase 
of  art  expression  known  as  the  circus.  My  happi 
est  memories  in  this  field  are  from  the  streets  of 
Paris  before  the  war,  the  incomparably  lovely  fetes. 
Only  the  sun  knows  where  these  dear  artists  may 
be  now. 

But  I  am  wanting  to  tell  of  the  little  equestrienne, 
whose  work  has  for  the  past  five  years  been  a  source 
of  genuine  delight  to  me,  charming  little  May  Wirth, 
of  Australian  origin,  with  her  lovely  dark  eyes,  and 
captivating  English  accent.  If  you  have  a  genuine 
sympathy  for  this  sort  of  expression,  it  is  but  natural 
that  you  want  to  get  inside  the  ring,  and  smell  the 
turf  with  them,  and  so  it  was  the  representative  of 
this  gifted  little  woman  who  brought  us  together. 
It  is,  in  the  first  place,  a  pity  that  there  is  so  little 
written  of  the  history  of  these  people,  so  little  ma 
terial  from  which  to  gather  the  development  of  the 
idea  of  acrobatics  in  general,  or  of  any  one  phase  in 
particular.  It  would  be  impossible  to  learn  who 
was  the  first  aerial  trapezist,  for  instance,  or  where 
high  wire  performing  was  brought  from,  just  when 
the  trick  of  adjusting  the  body  to  these  difficult  and 
strenuous  rhythms  was  originated.  They  cannot 
tell  you  themselves.  Only  if  there  happens  to  be 
more  than  two  generations  in  existence  can  you  trace 
the  development  of  this  form  of  athletic  entertain 
ment.  It  may  have  begun  with  the  Egyptians,  it 
may  have  begun  with  the  first  gypsies. 

176 


A  CHARMING  EQUESTRIENNE 

These  people  do  not  write  their  history,  they  sim 
ply  make  it  among  themselves,  and  it  is  handed 
down  through  the  generations.  When  I  asked  May 
Wirth  for  information,  she  said  she  knew  of  none 
on  the  subject,  save  that  she  herself  sprang  from 
five  generations  of  acrobats  and  equestrians,  and  that 
it  is  terrifically  hard  labour  from  beginning  to  end, 
equestrianism  in  particular,  since  it  requires  a  knowl 
edge  of  several  if  not  all  the  other  physical  arts  com 
bined,  such  as  high  wire  walking,  handspring  and 
somersault,  trapeze  work,  bars,  ballet  dancing,  etc. ; 
that  she  herself  had  begun  as  a  child,  and  had  run 
the  entire  gamut  of  these  requirements,  coming  out 
the  finished  product,  so  to  speak,  in  all  but  ballet 
dancing,  which  she  disliked,  and  wept  always  when 
the  time  came  for  her  lesson  in  this  department. 

When  one  sees  the  incomparable  brilliancy  of  this 
little  woman  of  the  horse,  watching  her  marvellous 
ground  work,  which  is  in  itself  an  example  of  vir 
tuosity,  one  realizes  what  accomplishment  alone 
can  do,  for  she  is  not  yet  twenty-five,  and  the  art  is 
already  in  the  condition  of  genius  with  her.  Five 
handsome  side-wheels  round  the  ring,  and  a  flying 
jump  on  the  horse,  then  several  complete  somersaults 
on  the  horse's  back  while  he  is  in  movement  round 
the  ring,  is  not  to  be  slighted  for  consideration,  and 
if,  as  I  have  said,  you  have  a  love  or  even  a  fancy 
for  this  sort  of  entertainment,  you  all  but  worship 
the  little  lady  for  the  thrill  she  gives  you  through 
this  consummate  mastery  of  hers. 

177 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

"I  always  wanted  to  do  what  the  boys  could  do, 
and  I  was  never  satisfied  until  I  had  accomplished 
it."  This  was  the  strongest  assertion  the  little  lady 
of  the  horse  was  moved  to  make  while  in  conversa 
tion,  and  that  the  ring  is  more  beautiful  to  work  in 
than  on  a  mat  upon  a  stage,  for  it  is  in  the  ring  that 
the  horse  is  most  at  home,  it  is  easier  for  him,  and 
gives  him  greater  muscular  freedom,  with  the  result 
naturally,  that  it  is  easier  on  the  muscles  of  the  hu 
man  body  while  in  action.  I  have  never  tired  of 
this  species  of  entertainment.  It  has  always  im 
pressed  me  as  being  the  most  natural  form  of  trans 
posed  physical  culture,  esthetically  speaking.  It 
does  for  the  eye,  if  you  are  sensitive,  what  music 
does  for  the  ear.  It  gives  the  body  a  chance  to 
show  its  exquisite  rhythmic  beauty,  as  no  other  form 
of  athletics  can,  for  it  is  the  beautiful  plastic  of  the 
body,  harmonically  arranged  for  personal  delight. 

It  is  something  for  so  young  a  woman  to  have 
walked  away  with  first  honours  in  her  chosen  field, 
yet  like  the  true  artist  that  she  is,  she  is  thinking 
always  of  how  she  can  beautify  her  accomplishment 
to  a  still  greater  degree.  She  is  mistress  of  a  very 
difficult  art,  and  yet  the  brilliancy  of  her  perform 
ance  makes  it  seem  as  if  it  were  but  the  experiment 
of  an  afternoon,  in  the  out-of-doors.  Like  all  fine 
artists,  she  has  brushed  away  from  sight  all  aspects 
of  labour,  and  presents  you,  with  astounding  ease, 
the  apparent  easiness  of  the  thing.  She  is  power 
fully  built,  and  her  muscles  are  master  of  coordina- 


A  CHARMING  EQUESTRIENNE 

tion,  such  as  would  be  the  envy  of  multitudes  of  men, 
and  with  all  this  power,  she  is  as  simple  in  her  man 
ner  and  appearance  as  is  the  young  debutante  at  her 
coming  out  function.  You  are  impressed  with  her 
sweetness  and  refinement,  first  of  all,  and  the  utter 
lack  of  show  about  her,  as  also  with  her  brother 
who  is  a  dapper  young  man  of  the  very  English  type, 
who  works  with  her,  and  acts  as  the  dress-suited 
gentleman  in  this  acrobatic  ringplay  of  theirs. 
Three  other  members  of  her  family  take  part  also 
with  her,  the  ring-mistress,  a  woman  of  possibly 
forty,  acting  as  host,  looking  exceptionally  well, 
handsome  indeed,  in  grey  and  silver  evening  dress, 
with  fine  dark  eyes  and  an  older  sister  who  opens  the 
performance  with  some  good  work.  This  seems  to 
me  to  be  the  modern  touch,  for  there  was  a  time 
when  it  was  always  the  very  well  groomed  ringmas 
ter,  with  top  hat  and  monocle,  who  acted  as  host 
of  the  ring. 

It  will  likewise  be  remembered  by  those  who  saw 
the  Hannafords  at  the  circus,  that  they  were  also 
possessed  of  a  very  handsome  ring-mistress,  ele 
gantly  gowned,  both  of  these  older  ladies  lending 
great  distinction,  by  their  presence,  to  already  bril 
liant  performances.  I  would  be  very  pleased  to 
make  myself  historian  for  these  fine  artists,  these 
esthetes  of  muscular  melody.  I  should  like  very 
much  to  be  spokesman  for  them,  and  point  out  to 
an  enforcedly  ignorant  public,  the  beauties  of  this 
line  of  artistic  expression,  and  to  give  historical  ac- 

179 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

count  of  the  development  of  these  various  pictur 
esque  athletic  arts.  Alas,  that  is  not  possible,  for  it 
must  remain  forever  in  the  limbo  of  tradition. 

We  shall  have  to  be  grateful  beyond  expression 
for  the  beautiful  art  of  May  Wirth,  and  devote  less 
enthusiasm  to  asking  of  when  and  how  it  came  about. 
To  have  established  one's  art  at  the  perfect  point 
in  one's  girlhood,  is  it  not  achievement,  is  it  not 
genius  itself?  Charming  little  May  Wirth,  first 
equestrienne  of  the  world,  I  congratulate  you  for 
your  beautiful  presentation,  for  the  excellence  of  its 
technique,  and  for  the  grace  and  fascination  con 
tained  therein.  Triumph  in  youth,  victory  in  the 
heroic  period  of  life,  that  surely  is  sufficient.  Let 
the  bays  fall  upon  her  young  head  gleefully,  for  she 
earned  them  with  patience,  devotion,  intelligence, 
and  very  hard  labours.  Salutations,  little  lady  of 
the  white  horse !  How  charming,  how  simple  she 
was,  the  little  equestrienne  as  she  rode  away  from 
the  door  of  the  huge  theatre,  in  her  pale  blue  tour 
ing  car.  "I  love  the  audiences  here  in  this  great 
theatre,  but  O,  I  love  the  circus  so  much  more !" 
These  were  the  sentiments  of  the  little  performer 
as  she  rode  away.  She  is  now  touring,  performing 
under  the  huge  canvases  in  the  open  areas  of  the 
middle  West,  and  the  little  traveling  circus  is  on 
its  way  over  the  mountains.  Fascinating  people, 
and  a  fascinating  life  for  whom  there  is  not,  and 
probably  never  will  be,  a  written  history;  the  story 
of  whose  origin  lies  almost  as  buried  as  that  of  the 

180 


A  CHARMING  EQUESTRIENNE 

primitive  peoples.  Charming  rovers,  content  with 
life  near  to  the  bright  sky,  charming  people,  for 
whom  life  is  but  one  long  day  in  which  to  make 
beautiful  their  bodies,  and  make  joyful  the  eyes  of 
those  who  love  to  look  at  them ! 


181 


JOHN  BARRYMORE  IN  PETER  IBBETSON 

THE  vicissitudes  of  the  young  boy  along  the 
vague,  precarious  way,  the  longing  to  find  the  real 
ity  of  the  dream — the  heart  that  knew  him  best — 
a  study  in  sentimentality,  the  pathetic  wanderings 
of  a  "little  boy  lost"  in  the  dream  of  childhood,  and 
the  "little  boy  found"  in  the  arms  of  his  loved 
mother,  with  all  those  touches  that  are  painful  and 
all  that  are  exquisite  and  poignant  in  their  beauty 
— such  is  the  picture  presented  by  John  Barrymore, 
as  nearly  perfect  as  any  artist  can  be,  in  "Peter  Ib- 
betson."  Certainly  it  is  as  finished  a  creation  in  its 
sense  of  form,  and  of  color,  replete  with  a  finesse 
of  rare  loveliness,  as  gratifying  a  performance,  to 
my  notion,  as  has  been  seen  on  our  stage  for  many 
years.  Perhaps  if  the  author,  recalling  vain  pasts, 
could  realize  the  scum  of  saccharinity  in  which  the 
play  is  utterly  submerged,  and  that  it  struggles  with 
great  difficulty  to  survive  the  nesselrodelike  sweet 
ness  with  which  it  is  surfeited,  he  would  recognize 
the  real  distinction  that  Barrymore  lends  to  a  role 
so  clogged  by  the  honeyed  sentimentality  covering 
most  of  the  scenes.  Barrymore  gives  us  that 
"quickened  sense"  of  the  life  of  the  young  man,  a 
portrayal  which  takes  the  eye  by  "its  fine  edge  of 

182 


JOHN  BARRYMORE  IN  PETER  IBBETSON 

light,"  a  portrayal  clear  and  cool,  elevated  to  a  fine 
loftiness  in  his  rendering. 

The  actor  has  accomplished  this  by  means  of  a 
nice  knowledge  of  what  symbolic  expression  means 
to  the  art  of  the  stage.  He  is  certainly  a  painter 
of  pictures  and  moods,  the  idea  and  his  image  per 
fectly  commingled,  endowing  this  mediocre  play  with 
true  charm  by  the  distinction  he  lends  it,  by  sheer 
discretion,  and  by  a  power  of  selection.  All  this 
he  brings  to  a  play  which,  if  it  had  been  written 
nowadays,  would  certainly  have  convicted  its  author, 
and  justly  too,  of  having  written  to  stimulate  the 
lachrymal  effusions  of  the  shop-girl,  a  play  about 
which  she  might  telephone  her  girl  friend,  at  which 
she  might  eat  bon  bons,  and  powder  her  nose  again 
for  the  street.  No  artist,  no  accepted  artist,  has 
given  a  more  suggestive  rendering  than  has  Barry- 
more  here.  It  would  be  difficult  to  say  where  he  is 
at  his  best,  except  that  the  first  half  of  the  play 
counts  for  most  in  point  of  strength  and  opportunity. 

A  tall  frail  young  man,  we  find  him,  blanched  with 
wonder  and  with  awe  at  the  perplexity  of  life,  seek 
ing  a  solution  of  things  by  means  of  the  dream,  as 
only  the  dreamer  and  the  visionary  can,  lost  from 
first  to  last,  seemingly  unloved  in  the  ways  boys 
think  they  want  to  be  loved ;  that  is,  the  shy  longing 
boy,  afraid  of  all  things,  and  mostly  of  himself,  in 
the  period  just  this  side  of  sex  revelation.  He  is 
the  neophyte — the  homeless,  pathetic  Peter,  per 
plexed  with  the  strangeness  of  things  real  and  tern- 

183 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

poral — vision  and  memory  counting  for  all  there  is 
of  reality  to  him,  with  life  itself  a  thing  as  yet  un- 
tasted.  Who  shall  forget  (who  has  a  love  for  real 
expression)  the  entrance  of  Peter  into  the  drawing- 
room  of  Mrs.  Deane,  the  pale  flowery  wisp  of  a 
boy  walking  as  it  were  into  a  garden  of  pungent 
spices  and  herbs,  and  of  actions  so  alien  to  his  own? 
We  are  given  at  this  moment  the  keynote  of  mastery 
in  delicate  suggestion,  which  never  fails  through 
out  the  play,  tedious  as  it  is,  overdrawn  on  the  side 
of  symbolism  and  mystical  insinuation. 

One  sits  with  difficulty  through  many  of  the  mo 
ments,  the  literary  quality  of  them  is  so  wretched. 
They  cloy  the  ear,  and  the  mind  that  has  been  made 
sensitive,  desiring  something  of  a  finer  type  of  stim 
ulation.  Barrymore  has  evoked,  so  we  may  call  it, 
a  cold  method — against  a  background  of  what  could 
have  been  overheated  acting  or  at  least  a  super 
abundance  of  physical  attack — the  warmth  of  the 
play's  tender  sentimentalities;  yet  he  covers  them 
with  a  still  spiritual  ardor  which  is  their  very  es 
sence,  extracting  all  the  delicate  nuances  and  ar 
ranging  them  with  a  fine  sense  of  proportion.  It 
is  as  difficult  an  accomplishment  for  a  man  as  one 
can  imagine.  For  it  is  not  given  to  many  to  act 
with  this  degree  of  whiteness,  devoid  of  off  color 
ings  or  alien  tones.  This  performance  of  Barry- 
more  in  its  spiritual  richness,  its  elegance,  finesse, 
and  intelligence,  has  not  been  equaled  for  me  since 

184 


JOHN  BARRYMORE  IN  PETER  IBBETSON 

I  saw  the  great  geniuses  Paul  Orleneff  and  Eleo- 
nora  Duse. 

It  is  to  be  at  once  observed  that  here  is  a  keen 
pictorial  mind,  a  mind  which  visualizes  perfectly 
for  itself  the  chiaroscuro  aspects  of  the  emotion, 
as  well  as  the  spiritual^  for  Barrymore  gives  them 
with  an  almost  unerring  felicity,  and  rounds  out  the 
portrayal  which  in  any  other  hands  would  suffer, 
but  Barrymore  has  the  special  power  to  feel  the 
value  of  reticence  in  all  good  art,  the  need  for  com 
plete  subjection  of  personal  enthusiasm  to  the  force 
of  ideas.  His  art  is  akin  to  the  art  of  silver-point, 
which,  as  is  known,  is  an  art  of  directness  of  touch, 
and  final  in  the  instant  of  execution,  leaving  no  room 
whatever  for  accident  or  untoward  excitement  of 
nerve. 

We  shall  wait  long  for  the  silver  suggestiveness 
such  as  Barrymore  gives  us  when  Peter  gets  his  first 
glimpse  of  Mary,  Duchess  of  Towers.  Who  else 
could  convey  his  realization  of  her  beauty,  and  the 
quality  of  reminiscence  that  lingers  about  her,  of 
the  rapt  amaze  as  he  stands  by  the  mantel-piece 
looking  through  the  door  into  the  space  where  he 
sees  her  in  the  midst  of  dancers  under  a  crystal 
chandelier  somewhere  not  very  distant?  Or  the 
moment  when  he  finds  her  bouquet  neglected  on  the 
table  in  the  drawing-room,  with  her  lace  shawl  not 
far  from  his  hands?  Or  when  he  finds  himself 
alone,  pressing  his  lips  into  the  depth  of  the  flowers 
as  the  curtain  gives  the  finale  to  the  scene  with  the 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

whispered  'Tamour" !  These  are  moments  of  a 
real  lyrist,  and  would  match  any  line  of  Banville, 
of  Ronsard,  or  of  Austin  Dobson  for  delicacy  of 
touch  and  feeling,  for  freshness,  and  for  the  precise 
spiritual  gesture,  the  "intonation"  of  action  requi 
site  to  relieve  the  moments  from  what  might  other 
wise  revert  to  commonplace  sentimentality. 

Whatever  the  prejudice  may  be  against  all  these 
emotions  glace  with  sugary  frosting,  we  feel  that  his 
art  has  brought  them  into  being  with  an  unmistak 
able  gift  of  refinement  coupled  with  superb'  style. 
How  an  artist  like  Beardsley  would  have  revelled  in 
these  moments  is  easy  to  conjecture.  For  here  is 
the  quintessence  of  intellectualized  aquarelle,  and 
these  touches  would  surely  have  brought  into  being 
another  "Pierrot  of  the  Minute" — a  new  line  draw 
ing  out  of  a  period  he  knew  and  loved  well.  These 
touches  would  have  been  graced  by  the  hand  of  that 
artist,  or  by  another  of  equal  delicacy  of  apprecia 
tion,  Charles  Conder — unforgettable  spaces  replete 
with  the  essence  of  fancy,  of  dream,  of  those  farther 
recesses  of  the  imagination. 

Although  technically  and  historically  Barrymore 
has  the  advantage  of  excellent  traditions,  he  never 
theless  rests  entirely  upon  his  own  achievements, 
separate  and  individual  in  his  understanding  of  what 
constitutes  plastic  power  in  art.  He  has  a  peculiar 
and  most  sensitive  temper,  which  can  arrange  points 
of  relation  in  juxtaposition  with  a  keen  sense  of  form 
as  well  as  of  substance.  He  is,  one  might  say,  a 

186 


JOHN  BARRYMORE  IN  PETER  IBBETSON 

masterly  draftsman  with  a  rich  cool  sense  of  color, 
whose  work  has  something  of  the  still  force  of  a 
drawing  of  Ingres  with,  as  well,  the  sensitive  detail 
one  finds  in  a  Redon,  like  a  beautiful  drawing  on 
stone.  An  excellent  knowledge  of  dramatic  con 
trasts  is  displayed  by  the  brothers  Barrymore,  John 
and  Lionel,  in  the  murder  scene,  one  of  the  finest 
we  have  seen  for  many  years,  technically  even, 
splendid,  and  direct,  concise  in  movement.  Every 
superfluous  gesture  has  been  eliminated.  From  the 
moment  of  Peter's  locking  the  door  upon  his  uncle 
the  scene  is  wrapped  in  the  very  coils  of  catastrophe, 
almost  Euripedean  in  its  inevitability.  All  of  this 
episode  is  kept  strictly  within  the  realm  of  the  imag 
ination.  It  is  an  episode  of  hatred,  of  which  there 
is  sure  to  be  at  least  one  in  the  life  of  every  young 
sensitive,  when  every  boy  wants,  at  any  rate  some 
where  in  his  mind,  to  destroy  some  influence  or  other 
which  is  alien  or  hateful  to  him.  The  scene  em 
phasizes  once  again  the  beauty  of  technical  power 
for  its  own  sake,  the  thrill  of  discarding  all  that  is 
not  immediately  essential  to  simple  and  direct  real 
ization. 

Little  can  be  said  of  the  play  beyond  this  point, 
for  it  dwindles  off  into  sentimental  mystification 
which  cannot  be  enjoyed  by  anyone  under  fifty,  or 
appreciated  by  anyone  under  eighteen.  It  gives  op 
portunity  merely  for  settings  and  some  rare  mo 
ments  of  costuming,  the  lady  with  the  battledore 
reminding  one  a  deal  of  a  good  Manet.  This  and, 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

of  course,  the  splendid  appearance  of  the  Duchess 
of  Towers  in  the  first  act — all  these  touches  furnish 
more  than  a  satisfying  background  for  the  very  shy 
and  frail  Peter. 

This  performance  of  Barrymore  holds  for  me  the 
first  and  last  requisite  of  organized  conception  in  art 
— poise,  clarity,  and  perfect  suggestibility.  Its  in 
tellectual  soundness  rules  the  emotional  extrava 
gance,  giving  form  to  what — for  lack  of  form — 
so  often  perishes  under  an  excess  of  energy,  which 
the  ignorant  actor  substitutes  for  the  plastic  ele 
ment  in  all  art.  It  has  the  attitude,  this  perform 
ance,  almost  of  diffidence  to  one's  subject-matter, 
except  as  the  intellect  judges  clearly  and  coolly. 
Thus,  in  the  sense  of  esthetic  reality,  are  all  aspects 
clarified  and  made  real.  From  the  outward  inward, 
or  from  the  inward  outward,  surface  to  depth  or 
depth  to  surface — it  is  difficult  to  say  which  is  the 
precise  method  of  approach.  John  Barrymore  has 
mastered  the  evasive  subtlety  therein,  which  makes 
him  one  of  our  greatest  artists.  The  fixture  will 
surely  wait  for  his  riper  contributions,  and  we  may 
think  of  him  as  one  of  our  foremost  artists,  among 
the  few,  "one  of  a  small  band,"  as  the  great  novel 
ist  once  said  of  the  great  poet. 


188 


PART  THREE 


LA  CLOSERIE  DE  LILAS 

DIVINE  Tuesday!  I  had  wondered  if  those  re 
markable  evenings  of  conversation  in  the  rue  de 
Rome  with  Mallarme  as  host,  and  Henri  de  Regnier 
as  guest,  among  many  others,  had  been  the  inspira 
tion  of  the  evenings  at  the  Closerie  de  Lilas,  where 
I  so  often  sat  of  an  evening,  watching  the  numbers 
of  esthetes  gather,  filling  the  entire  cafe,  rain  or 
shine,  waiting  unquestionably,  for  it  pervaded  the 
air  always,  the  feeling  of  suspense,  of  a  dinner  with 
out  host,  of  a  wedding  without  bridegroom,  in  any 
event  waiting  for  the  real  genius  of  the  evening,  le 
grand  maitre  prince  de  poetes,  Paul  Fort.  The  in 
teresting  book  of  Amy  Lowell's,  "Six  French  Poets," 
recalls  these  Tuesday  evenings  vividly  to  my  mind, 
and  a  number  of  episodes  in  connection  with  the  idea 
of  poetry  in  Paris. 

Poetry  an  event?  A  rather  remarkable  notion 
it  would  seem,  and  yet  this  was  always  so,  it  was  a 
constituent  of  the  day's  passing,  there  was  never  a 
part  of  the  day  in  this  arrondissement,  when  you 
would  not  find  here,  there,  everywhere,  from  the 
Boul-Mich  up,  down  Montparnasse  to  Lavenue's, 
and  back  to  the  Closerie,  groups  of  a  few  or  of 
many,  obviously  the  artist  or  poet  type,  sometimes 
very  nattily  dressed,  often  the  reverse,  but  you  found 

191 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

them  talking  upon  one  theme,  art,  meaning  either 
poetry  or  painting,  cubistes,  futuristes,  orphistes  and 
doubtless  every  "iste"  in  poetry  from  the  symbol- 
iste  period  up  to  the  "unanimistes"  of  the  present 
time,  or  the  then  present  time  nearly  two  years  be 
fore  the  war.  It  was  a  bit  novel,  even  for  a  sensi 
tive  American,  sitting  there,  realizing  that  it  was 
all  in  the  name  of  art,  and  for  the  heralding  of 
genius — a  kind  of  sublimated  recruiting  meeting  for 
the  enlistment  in  the  army  of  expression  of  person 
ality,  or  for  the  saving  of  the  soul  of  poetry. 

It  was  a  spectacle,  edifying  in  its  purport,  or  even 
a  little  distressing  if  one  had  no  belief  in  a  sense  of 
humour,  for  there  were  moments  of  absurdity  about 
it  as  there  is  sure  to  be  in  a  room  filled  with  any  type 
of  concerted  egotism.  But  you  did  not  forget  the 
raison  d'etre  of  it  all,  you  did  not  forget  that  when 
the  "prince"  arrived  there  was  the  spirit  of  true 
celebration  about  it,  the  celebration  not  only  of  an 
arrived  artist,  but  of  an  idea  close  to  the  hearts  and 
minds  of  those  present,  and  you  had  a  sense,  too, 
of  what  it  must  have  been  like  in  that  circle  of,  no 
doubt,  a  higher  average  of  adherents,  in  the  draw 
ing  room  of  the  genius  Mallarme,  who,  from  all 
accounts,  was  as  perfected  in  the  art  of  conversation, 
as  he  was  in  expression  in  art.  When  I  read  Miss 
Lowell's  chapter  on  Henri  de  Regnier,  I  find  myself 
before  the  door  of  the  Mallarme  house  in  the  rue 
de  Rome,  probably  the  only  American  guest,  on  that 
Sunday  morning  in  June,  just  one  given  a  privilege 

192 


LA  CLOSERIE  DE  LILAS 

that  could  not  mean  as  much  as  if  I  had  been  more 
conversant  with  the  delicacies  of  the  language. 

It  was  the  occasion  of  the  placing  of  a  tablet  of 
homage  to  the  great  poet,  at  which  ceremony  Henri 
de  Regnier  himself  was  the  chief  speaker:  a  tall, 
very  aristocratic,  very  elegant  looking  Frenchman, 
not  any  more  to  be  called  young,  nor  yet  to  be  called 
old,  but  conspicuously  simple,  dignified,  dressed  in  a 
manner  of  a  gentleman  of  the  first  order,  standing 
upon  a  chair,  speaking,  as  one  would  imagine,  with 
a  flow  of  words  which  were  the  epitome  of  music 
itself  to  the  ear.  I  had  been  invited  by  a  poet  well 
known  in  Paris,  with  several  volumes  to  his  credit 
and  by  a  young  literary  woman,  both  of  whom  spoke 
English  very  creditably.  After  the  ceremonies, 
which  were  very  brief,  and  at  which  Madame 
Mallarme  herself  was  present,  standing  near  the 
speaker,  de  Regnier,  the  entire  company  repaired  to 
a  restaurant  near  the  Place  Clichy,  if  I  remember 
rightly.  My  hostess  named  for  me  the  various 
guests  as  they  appeared,  Madame  Rachilde,  Rey- 
naldo  Hahn,  Andre  Gide,  and  a  dozen  other  names 
less  conspicuous,  perhaps,  excepting  one,  Leon 
Dierx,  who  was  an  old  man,  and  whose  death  was 
announced  about  the  city  some  days  later.  It  was, 
needless  to  say,  a  conspicuous  company  and  the  din 
ner  went  off  very  quietly,  allowing  of  course  for  the 
always  feverish  sound  of  the  conversation  of  many 
people  talking  in  a  not  very  large  room. 

193 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

But  all  these  suggestions  recall  for  me  once  more 
what  such  things  mean  to  a  people  like  the  French, 
or,  let  one  say,  Europeans  as  well.  I  wonder  what 
poetry  or  even  painting  will  do,  if  they  shall  rise  to 
such  a  state  in  this  country  that  we  shall  find  our 
masters  of  literature  holding  audience  with  this  de 
gree  of  interest  like  Fort,  or  as  did  all  the  great 
masters  of  literature  in  Paris,  hold  forth  in  the  name 
of  art,  a  divine  Tuesday  set  apart  for  the  admirable 
worship  of  poetry,  or  of  things  esthetic.  I  can 
imagine  Amy  Lowell  doing  something  of  this  sort 
after  the  custom  of  those  masters  she  so  admires, 
with  her  seemingly  quenchless  enthusiasms  for  all 
that  is  modern  in  poetry.  I  think  we  shall  wait  long 
for  that,  for  the  time  when  we  shall  have  our  best 
esthetics  over  the  coffee,  at  the  curbside  under  the 
trees  with  the  sun  shining  upon  it,  or  the  shadow  of 
the  evening  lending  its  sanction,  under  the  magnetic 
influence  of  such  a  one  as  Paul  Fort  or  Francis 
Jammes,  or  Emile  Verhaeren — as  it  was  once  to  be 
had  among  such  as  Verlaine,  Baudelaire  and  that 
high  company  of  distinguished  painters  who  are  now 
famous  among  us. 

The  studio  of  Gertude  Stein,  that  quiet  yet  always 
lively  place  in  the  rue  de  Fleurus,  is  the  only  room 
I  have  ever  been  in  where  this  spirit  was  organized 
to  a  similar  degree,  for  here  you  had  the  sense  of 
the  real  importance  of  painting,  as  it  used  to  be 
thought  of  in  the  clays  of  Pissarro,  Manet,  Degas, 
and  the  others,  and  you  had  much,  in  all  human  ways, 

194 


LA  CLOSERIE  DE  LILAS 

out  of  an  evening  there,  and,  most  of  all,  you  had 
a  fund  of  good  humour  thrust  at  you,  and  the  con 
versation  took  on,  not  the  quality  of  poetic  prose 
spoken,  as  you  had  the  quality  of  yourself  and  oth 
ers,  a  kind  of  William  James  intimacy,  which,  as 
everyone  knows,  is  style  bringing  the  universe  of 
ideas  to  your  door  in  terms  :of  your  own  sensations. 
There  may  have  been  a  touch  of  all  this  at  the  once 
famed  Brook  Farm,  but  I  fancy  it  was  rather  chill 
in  its  severity. 

There  is  something  of  charm  in  the  French  idea 
of  taking  their  discussions  to  the  sunlight  or  the 
shadow  under  the  stars,  either  within  or  outside  the 
cafe,  where  you  feel  the  passing  of  the  world,  and 
the  poetry  is  of  one  piece  with  life  itself,  not  the  re 
sult  of  stuffy  studios,  and  excessively  ornate  library 
corners,  where  books  crowd  out  the  quality  of  peo 
ple  and  things.  You  felt  that  the  cafe  was  the  place 
for  it,  and  if  the  acrobat  came  and  sang,  it  was  all 
of  one  fabric  and  it  was  as  good  for  the  poetry,  as 
it  was  for  the  eye  and  the  ear  that  absorbed  it.  De 
spite  the  different  phases  of  the  spectacle  of  Tues 
day,  at  the  Closerie  de  Lilas,  you  had  the  feeling  of 
its  splendour,  its  excellence,  and,  most  of  all,  of  its 
reality,  its  relationship  to  every  other  phase  of  life, 
and  not  of  the  hypersensitivity  of  the  thing  as  we 
still  consider  it  among  ourselves  in  general;  and  if 
you  heard  the  name  of  Paul  Fort,  or  Francis 
Jammes,  it  was  a  definite  issue  in  daily  life,  equal 
with  the  name  of  the  great  statesmen  in  importance, 

195 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

you  were  being  introduced  into  a  sphere  of  activi 
ties  of  the  utmost  importance,  that  poetry  was  some 
thing  to  be  reckoned  with. 

It  was  not  merely  to  hear  oneself  talk  that  artists 
like  Mallarme  held  forth  with  distinction,  that 
artists  like  de  Regnier  and  Fort  devote  themselves, 
however  secretly,  or  however  openly  to  the  sacred 
theme.  They  had  but  one  intention,  and  that  to 
arrive  at,  and  assist  in  the  realization  of  the  best 
state  of  poetry,  that  shall  have  carried  the  art  fur 
ther  on  its  way  logically,  and  in  accordance  with  the 
principles  which  they  have  created  for  their  time; 
endeavoring  always  to  create  fresh  values,  new 
points  of  contact  with  the  prevailing  as  well  as  with 
the  older  outlines  of  the  classics.  It  was,  then,  a 
spectacle,  from  our  removed  point  of  view,  the  gath 
ering  of  the  poetic  multitude  around  the  cafe  tables, 
over  the  Dubonnet,  the  grenadines,  and  the  cafe 
noir,  of  a  Tuesday  evening.  It  gave  one  a  sense 
of  perpetuity,  of  the  indestructibility  of  art,  in  spite 
of  the  obstacles  encountered  in  the  run  of  the  day, 
that  the  artist  has  the  advantage  over  the  layman 
in  being  qualified  to  set  down,  in  shapes  imperish 
able,  those  states  of  his  imagination  which  are  the 
shapes  of  life  and  of  nature. 

We  may  be  grateful  to  Amy  Lowell  for  having 
assembled  for  our  consummation,  in  a  world  where 
poetry  is  not  as  yet  the  sublime  issue  as  it  was  to 
be  felt  at  every  street  corner,  much  of  the  spirit  of 
the  rue  de  Rome,  the  Cafe  Novelles  D'Athenes,  and 

196 


LA  CLOSERIE  DE  LILAS 

the  Closerie  de  Lilas,  as  well  as  the  once  famed 
corner  of  the  Cafe  D'Harcourt  where  the  absinthe 
flowed  so  continuously,  and  from  which  some  very 
exquisite  poetry  has  emanated  for  all  time.  It  is 
the  first  intimation  we  have  of  what  our  best  Eng 
lish  poetry  has  done  for  the  best  French  poets  of 
the  present,  and  what  our  first  free  verse  poet  has 
done  for  the  general  liberation  of  emotions  and  for 
freedom  of  form  in  all  countries.  He  has  indicated 
the  poets  that  are  to  follow  him.  He  would  be  the 
first  to  sanction  all  this  poetic  discussive  intensity 
at  the  curbside,  the  liberty  and  freedom  of  the  cafe, 
the  excellence  of  a  divine  Tuesday  evening. 


197 


EMILY  DICKINSON 

IF  I  want  to  take  up  poetry  in  its  most  delightful 
and  playful  mood,  I  take  up  the  verses  of  that  re 
markable  girl  of  the  sixties  and  seventies,  Emily 
Dickinson,  she  who  was  writing  her  little  worthless 
poetic  nothings,  or  so  she  was  wont  to  think  of  them, 
at  a  time  when  the  now  classical  New  England  group 
was  flourishing  around  Concord,  when  Hawthorne 
was  burrowing  into  the  soul  of  things,  Thoreau  was 
refusing  to  make  more  pencils  and  took  to  sounding 
lake  bottoms  and  holding  converse  with  all  kinds 
of  fish  and  other  water  life,  and  Emerson  was  stand 
ing  high  upon  his  pedestal  preaching  of  compensa 
tions,  of  friendship,  society  and  the  oversoul,  leav 
ing  a  mighty  impress  upon  his  New  England  and  the 
world  at  large  as  well. 

I  find  when  I  take  up  Emily  Dickinson,  that  I  am 
sort  of  sunning  myself  in  the  discal  radiance  of  a 
bright,  vivid,  and  really  new  type  of  poet,  for  she 
is  by  no  means  worn  of  her  freshness  for  us,  she 
wears  with  one  as  would  an  old  fashioned  pearl  set 
in  gold  and  dark  enamels.  She  offsets  the  smug 
ness  of  the  time  in  which  she  lived  with  her  cheery 
impertinence,  and  startles  the  present  with  her  un 
common  gifts.  Those  who  know  the  irresistible 

198 


EMILY  DICKINSON 

charm  of  this  girl — who  gave  so  charming  a  por 
trait  of  herself  to  the  stranger  friend  who  inquired 
for  a  photograph:  "I  had  no  portrait  now,  but 
am  small  like  the  wren,  and  my  hair  is  bold  like  the 
chestnut  burr,  and  my  eyes  like  the  sherry  in  the 
glass  that  the  guest  leaves,"  this  written  in  July, 
1862 — shall  be  of  course  familiar  with  the  unde 
niable  originality  of  her  personality,  the  grace  and 
special  beauty  of  her  mind,  charm  unique  in  itself, 
not  like  any  other  genius  then  or  now,  or  in  the  time 
before  her,  having  perhaps  a  little  of  relationship 
to  the  crystal  clearness  of  Crashaw,  like  Vaughan 
and  Donne  maybe,  in  respect  of  their  lyrical  fer 
vour  and  moral  earnestness,  yet  nevertheless  appear 
ing  to  us  freshly  with  as  separate  a  spirit  in  her 
verse  creations  as  she  herself  was  separated  from 
the  world  around  her  by  the  amplitude  of  garden 
which  was  her  universe.  Emily  Dickinson  con 
fronts  you  at  once  with  an  instinct  for  poetry,  to  be 
envied  by  the  more  ordinary  and  perhaps  more  fin 
ished  poets.  Ordinary  she  never  was,  common  she 
never  could  have  been,  for  she  was  first  and  last 
aristocrat  in  sensibility,  rare  and  untouchable  if  you 
will,  vague  and  mystical  often  enough,  unapproach 
able  and  often  distinctly  aloof,  as  undoubtedly  she 
herself  was  in  her  personal  life.  Those  with  a 
fondness  for  intimacy  will  find  her,  like  all  recluses, 
forbidding  and  difficult,  if  not  altogether  terrifying 
the  mind  with  her  vagueries  and  peculiarities. 

Here  was  New  England  at  its  sharpest,  brightest, 
199 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

wittiest,  most  fantastic,  most  wilful,  most  devout, 
saint  and  imp  sported  in  one,  toying  with  the  tricks 
of  the  Deity,  taking  them  now  with  extreme  pro 
fundity,  then  tossing  them  about  like  irresistible 
toys  with  an  incomparable  triviality.  She  has  traced 
upon  the  page  and  with  celestial  indelibility  that  fine 
line  from  her  soul  which  is  like  a  fine  prismatic  light, 
separating  one  bright  sphere  from  another,  one 
planet  from  another  planet,  and  the  edge  of  separa 
tion  is  but  faintly  perceptible.  She  has  left  us  this 
bright  folio  of  her  "lightning  and  fragrance  in  one," 
scintillant  with  Stardust  as  perhaps  no  other  before 
her,  certainly  not  in  this  country,  none  with  just  her 
celestial  attachedness,  or  must  we  call  it  detached- 
ness,  and  withal  also  a  sublime,  impertinent  play 
fulness  which  makes  her  images  dance  before  one 
like  offspring  of  the  great  round  sun,  fooling  zeal 
ously  with  the  universes  at  her  feet,  and  just  beyond 
her  eye,  with  a  loftiness  of  spirit  and  of  exquisite 
trivialness  seconded  by  none.  Who  has  not  read 
these  flippant  renderings,  holding  always  some  touch 
of  austerity  and  gravity  of  mood,  or  the  still  more 
perfect  "letters"  to  her  friends,  will,  I  think,  have 
missed  a  new  kind  of  poetic  diversion,  a  new  love 
liness,  evasive,  alert,  pronounced  in  every  interval 
and  serious,  modestly  so,  and  at  a  bound  leaping  as 
it  were  like  some  sky  child  pranking  with  the  clouds, 
and  the  hills  and  the  valleys  beneath  them,  child  as 
she  surely  was  always,  playing  in  some  celestial  gar 
den  space  in  her  mind,  where  every  species  of  tether 

200 


EMILY  DICKINSON 

was  unendurable,  where  freedom  for  this  childish 
sport  was  the  one  thing  necessary  to  her  ever  young 
and  incessantly  capering  mind — "hail  to  thee,  blithe 
spirit,  bird  thou  ever  wert"  ! 

It  must  be  said  in  all  justice,  then,  that  "fascina 
tion  was  her  element,"  everything  to  her  was  won 
drous,  sublimely  magical,  awsomely  inspiring  and 
thrilling.  It  was  the  event  of  many  moons  to  have 
someone  she  liked  say  so  much  as  good  morning  to 
her  in  human  tongue,  it  was  the  event  of  every  in 
stant  to  have  the  flowers  and  birds  call  her  by  name, 
and  hear  the  clouds  exult  at  her  approach.  She  was 
the  brightest  young  sister  of  fancy,  as  she  was  the 
gifted  young  daughter  of  the  ancient  imagination. 
One  feels  everywhere  in  her  verse  and  in  her  so 
splendid  and  stylish  letters  an  unexcelled  freshness, 
brightness  of  metaphor  and  of  imagery,  a  gift  of 
a  peculiarity  that  could  have  come  only  from  this 
part  of  our  country,  this  part  of  the  world,  this  very 
spot  which  has  bred  so  many  intellectual  and  spir 
itual  entities  wrapped  in  the  garments  of  isolation, 
robed  with  questioning.  Her  genius  is  in  this 
sense  essentially  local,  as  much  the  voice  of  the  spirit 
of  New  England  as  it  is  possible  for  one  to  hold. 
If  ever  wanderer  hitched  vehicle  to  the  comet's  tail, 
it  was  the  poetic,  sprite  woman,  no  one  ever  rode 
the  sky  and  the  earth  as  she  did  in  this  radiant  and 
skybright  mind  of  her. 

She  loved  all  things  because  all  things  were  in 
one  way  or  in  another  way  bright  for  her,  and  of  a 

201 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

blinding  brightness  from  which  she  often  had  to  hide 
her  face.  She  embroidered  all  her  thoughts  with 
starry  intricacies,  and  gave  them  the  splendour  of 
frosty  traceries  upon  the  windowpane  in  a  frigid 
time,  and  of  the  raindrop  in  the  sun,  and  summered 
them  with  fragrancirig  of  the  many  early  and  late 
flowers  of  her  own  fanciful  conjuring.  They  are 
glittering  garlands  of  her  clear,  cool  fancies,  these 
poems,  fraught  in  some  instances,  as  are  certain 
finely  cut  stones,  with  an  exceptional  mingling  of 
lights  coursing  swiftly  through  them.  She  was  avid 
of  starlight  and  of  sunlight  alike,  and  of  that  light 
by  which  all  things  are  illumined  with  a  splendour 
not  their  own  merely,  but  lent  them  by  shafts  from 
that  radiant  sphere  which  she  leaned  from,  looking 
out  gleefully  upon  them  from  the  window  of  that 
high  place  in  her  mind. 

To  think  of  this  poet  is  to  think  of  crystal,  for 
she  lived  in  a  radianced  world  of  innumerable  facets, 
and  the  common  instances  were  chariots  upon  which 
to  ride  widely  over  the  edges  of  infinity.  She  is 
alive  for  us  now  in  those  rare  fancies  of  hers,  with 
no  other  wish  in  them  save  as  memorandum  for  her 
own  eyes,  and  when  they  were  finished  to  send  them 
spinning  across  the  wide  garden,  many  of  them  to 
her  favorite  sister  who  lived  far,  far  away,  over 
beyond  the  hedge.  You  shall  find  in  her  all  that  is 
winsome,  strange,  fanciful,  fantastic  and  irresistible 
in  the  eastern  character  and  characteristic.  She  is 
first  and  best  in  lightsomeness  of  temper,  for  the 

202 


EMILY  DICKINSON 

eastern  is  known  as  essentially  a  tragic  genius.  She 
is  perhaps  the  single  exponent  of  modern  times  of 
the  quality  of  true  celestial  frivolity.  Scintillant 
was  she  then,  and  like  dew  she  was  and  the  soft 
summer  rain,  and  the  light  upon  the  lips  of  flowers 
of  which  she  loved  to  sing.  Her  mind  and  her  spirit 
were  one,  soul  and  sense  inseparable,  little  sister  of 
Shelley  certainly  she  was,  and  the  more  playful  rela 
tive  of  Francis  Thompson. 

She  had  about  her  the  imperishable  quality  that 
hovers  about  all  things  young  and  strong  and  beau 
tiful,  she  was  the  sense  of  beauty  ungovernable. 
What  there  are  of  tendencies  religious  and  moral 
disturb  in  nowise  those  who  love  and  have  apprecia 
tion  for  true  poetic  essences.  She  had  in  her  brain 
the  inevitable  buzzing  of  the  bee  in  the  belly  of  the 
bloom,  she  had  in  her  eyes  the  climbing  lances  of 
the  sun,  she  had  in  her  heart  love  and  pity  for  the 
innumerable  pitiful  and  pitiable  things.  She  was  a 
quenchless  mother  in  her  gift  for  solace  and  she  was 
lover  to  the  immeasurable  love.  Like  all  aristocrats 
she  hated  mediocrity,  and  like  all  first  rate  jewels, 
she  had  no  rift  to  hide.  She  was  not  a  maker  of 
poetry,  she  was  a  thinker  of  poetry.  She  was  not 
a  conjurer  of  words  so  much  as  a  magician  in  sen 
sibility.  She  has  only  to  see  and  feel  and  hear  to 
be  in  touch  with  all  things  with  a  name  or  with  things 
that  must  be  forever  nameless.  If  she  loved  peo 
ple,  she  loved  them  for  what  they  were,  if  she  de 
spised  them  she  despised  them  for  what  they  did, 

203 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

or  for  lack  of  power  to  feel  they  could  not  do.  Si 
lence  under  a  tree  was  a  far  more  talkative  experi 
ence  with  her  than  converse  with  one  or  a  thousand 
dull  minds.  Her  throng  was  the  air,  and  her  wings 
were  the  multitude  of  flying  movements  in  her  brain. 
She  had  only  to  think  and  she  was  amid  numberless 
minarets  and  golden  domes,  she  had  only  to  think 
and  the  mountain  cleft  its  shadow  in  her  heart. 

Emily  Dickinson  is  in  no  sense  toil  for  the  mind 
accustomed  to  the  labours  of  reading,  she  is  too 
fanciful  and  delicious  ever  to  make  heavy  the  head, 
she  sets  you  to  laughter  and  draws  a  smile  across 
your  face  for  pity,  and  lets  you  loose  again  amid 
the  measureless  pleasing  little  humanities.  I  shall 
always  want  to  read  Emily  Dickinson,  for  she  points 
her  finger  at  all  tiresome  scholasticism,  and  takes  a 
chance  with  the  universe  about  her  and  the  first  rate 
poetry  it  offers  at  every  hand  within  the  eye's  easy 
glancing.  She  has  made  poetry  memorable  as  a 
pastime  for  the  mind,  and  sent  the  heavier  minis 
terial  tendencies  flying  to  a  speedy  oblivion.  What 
a  child  she  was,  child  impertinent,  with  a  heavenly 
rippling  in  her  brain ! 

These  random  passages  out  of  her  writings  will 
show  at  once  the  rarity  of  her  tastes  and  the  orig 
inality  of  her  phrasing.  "February  passed  like  a 
kate,  and  I  know  March.  Here  is  the  light  the 
stranger  said  was  not  on  sea  or  land — myself  could 

arrest  it,  but  will  not  chagrin  him" 

204 


EMILY  DICKINSON 

"The  wind  blows  gay  today,  and  the  jays  bark  like  blue 
terriers." 

"Friday  I  tasted  life,  it  was  a  vast  morsel.  A  circus  passed 
the  house  —  still  I  feel  the  red  in  my  mind  though  the  drums 
are  out." 

"The  lawn  is  full  of  south  and  the  odors  tangle,  and  I  hear 
today  for  the  first  the  river  in  the  tree." 

"The  zeros  taught  us  phosphorus 
We  learned  to  like  the  fire 
By  playing  glaciers  when  a  boy 
And  tinder  guessed  by  power 

Of  opposite  to  balance  odd 
If  white  a  red  must  be! 
Paralysis,  our  primer  dumb 
Unto  vitality." 

Then  comes  the  "crowning  extravaganza.  ...  If 
I  read  a  book,  and  it  makes  my  whole  body  so  cold 
no  fire  will  ever  warm  me,  I  know  that  is  poetry. 
If  I  feel  physically  as  if  the  top  of  my  head  were 
taken  off,  I  know  that  is  poetry.  Is  there  any  other 
way?  These  are  the  only  ways  I  know  it." 

No  one  but  a  New  England  yankee  mind  could 
concoct  such  humours  and  fascinatingly  pert  phrases 
as  are  found  here.  They  are  like  the  chatterings 
of  the  interrupted  squirrel  in  the  tree-hole  at  nut- 
time.  There  is  so  much  of  high  gossip  in  these 
poetic  turns  of  hers,  and  so,  throughout  her  books, 
one  finds  a  multitude  of  playful  tricks  for  the  pleased 
mind  to  run  with.  She  was  an  intoxicated  being, 
drunken  with  the  little  tipsy  joys  of  the  simplest 
form,  shaped  as  they  were  to  elude  always  her  eva 
sive  imagination  into  thinking  that  nothing  she  could 
think  or  feel  but  was  extraordinary  and  remarkable. 

205 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

"Your  letter  gave  no  drunkenness  because  I  tasted 
rum  before — Domingo  comes  but  once,"  etc.,  she 
wrote  to  Col.  Higginson,  a  pretty  conceit,  surely  to 
offer  a  loved  friend.  The  passages  offered  will  give 
the  unfamiliar  reader  a  taste  of  the  sparkle  of  this 
poet's  hurrying  fancy  and  set  her  before  the  willing 
mind  entrancingly,  it  seems  to  me.  She  will  always 
delight  those  who  find  it  in  their  way  to  love  her 
elfish,  evasive  genius,  and  those  who  care  for  the 
vivid  and  living  element  in  words  will  find  her,  to 
say  the  least,  among  the  masters  in  her  feeling  for 
their  strange  shapes  and  the  fresh  significance  con 
tained  in  them.  A  born  thinker  of  poetry,  and  in 
a  great  measure  a  gifted  writer  of  it,  refreshing 
many  a  heavy  moment  made  dull  with  the  weighti- 
ness  of  books,  or  of  burdensome  thinking.  This 
poet-sprite  sets  scurrying  all  weariness  of  the  brain, 
and  they  shall  have  an  hour  of  sheer  delight  who 
invite  poetic  converse  with  Emily  Dickinson.  She 
will  repay  with  funds  of  rich  celestial  coin  from  her 
rare  and  precious  fancyings.  She  had  that  "oblique 
integrity"  which  she  celebrates  in  one  of  her  poems. 


206 


ADELAIDE  CRAPSEY 

ONE  more  satellite  hurried  away  too  soon !  High 
hints  at  least,  of  the  young  meteor  finding  its  way 
through  space.  Here  was  another  of  those,  with 
a  vast  fund  of  wishing  in  her  brain,  and  the  briefest 
of  hours  in  which  to  set  them  roaming.  Brevities 
that  whirl  through  the  mind  as  you  read  those  cin- 
quains  of  Adelaide  Crapsey,  like  white  birds  through 
the  dark  woodlands  of  the  night.  Cameos  or  cas 
tles,  what  is  size?  Is  it  not  the  same  if  they  are  of 
one  perfection  of  feeling?  Such  a  little  book  of 
Adelaide  Crapsey,  surely  like  cameos  cut  on  shell, 
so  clear  in  outline,  so  rich  in  form,  so  brave  in  in 
dications,  so  much  of  singing,  so  much  of  poetry, 
of  courage. 

"Just  now, 
Out  of  the  strange 
Still  dusk — as  strange,  as  still, 
A  white  moth  flew;  Why  am  I  grown 
So  cold?" 

Isn't  the  evidence  sufficient  here  of  first  rate  po 
etic  gifts,  sensibility  of  an  exceptional  order?  Con 
trast  in  so  many  ways  with  that  perhaps  more  radi 
ant  and  certainly  more  whimsical  girl,  with  her  rar 
est  of  flavours,  she  with  her  "whip  of  diamond,  rid 
ing  to  meet  the  Earl"  I  I  think  geniuses  like  Keats 

207 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

or  Shelley  would  have  said  "how  do  you  do,  poet?" 
to  Adelaide  Crapsey  and  her  verse,  lamenting  also 
that  she  flew  over  the  rainbowed  edge  of  the  dusk 
too  soon,  like  the  very  moth  over  the  garden  wall, 
early  in  the  evening.  It  is  sure  that  had  this  poet 
been  allowed  her  full  quota  of  days,  she  would  have 
left  some  handsome  folios  bright  enough  for  any 
one  caring  for  verse  at  its  purest.  Pity  there  was 
not  time  for  another  book  at  least,  of  her  verses,  to 
verify  the  great  distinction  conferred.  She  might 
have  walked  still  more  largely  away  with  the 
wreaths  of  recognition.  Not  time  for  more  books, 
instead  of  so  much  eternity  at  her  bedside.  She 
would  surely  have  sent  more  words  singing  to  their 
high  places  and  have  impressed  the  abundant  out 
put  of  the  day  with  its  superficiality  by  her  serious 
ness.  There  is  no  trifling  in  these  poetic  things  of 
hers.  Trivial  might  some  say  who  hanker  after 
giantesque  composition.  Fragile  are  they  only  in 
the  sense  of  size,  only  in  this  way  are  they  small. 
Those  who  know  the  difficulties  of  writing  poetic 
composition  are  aware  of  the  task  involved  in  cre 
ating  such  packed  brevities.  Emily  Dickinson 
knew  this  power.  UH.  D."  is  another  woman  who 
understands  the  beauty  of  compactness.  Superb 
sense  of  economy,  of  terseness  the  art  calls  for,  ex 
cessive  pruning  and  clipping.  Singular  that  these 
three  artists,  so  gifted  in  brevity  were  women. 
There  is  little,  after  all,  in  existence  that  warrants 
lengthy  dissertation.  Life  itself  is  epigrammatic  and 

208 


ADELAIDE  CRAPSEY 

brief  enough.  No  volumes  needed  by  way  of  ex 
planation.  The  fascinating  enigma  diverts  and  per 
plexes  everyone  alike.  The  simple  understand  it 
best,  or  at  least  they  seem  to  do  so.  "  Segregation, 
aloofness,  spiritual  imprisonment,  which  is  another 
name  for  introspection,  the  looking  out  from  bars 
of  the  caged  house,  all  this  discovers  something 
through  penetration.  Walking  with  life  is  most  nat 
ural,  grazing  its  warm  shoulder.  There  is  little 
room  for  inquiry  if  one  have  the  real  feeling  of 
life  itself.  Poetry  is  that  which  gleans  most  by 
keeping  nearest  to  life.  Books  and  firesides  avail 
but  little.  Secretaries  for  the  baggage  of  erudition 
do  not  enhance  poetic  values,  they  encumber  them. 
Poetry  is  not  declamation,  it  is  not  propaganda,  it 
is  breathing  natural  breaths.  There  is  nothing  me 
chanical  about  poetry  excepting  the  affectation  of 
forms.  Poetry  is  the  world's,  it  is  everybody's. 
You  count  poetry  by  its  essence,  and  no  amount  of 
studied  effect,  or  bulging  erudition  will  create  that 
which  is  necessary,  that  which  makes  poetry  what 
it  is.  The  one  essential  is  power  to  sing,  and  the 
intelligence  to  get  it  down  with  degrees  of  mastery 
or  naturalness,  which  is  one  and  the  same  thing. 

Real  singing  is  unusual  as  real  singers  are  rare. 
Adelaide  Crapsey  shows  that  she  was  a  real  singer, 
essentially  poet,  excellent  among  those  of  our  time. 
She  impresses  her  uncommon  qualities  upon  you, 
in  the  cinquains  of  hers,  with  genuinely  incisive  force. 
She  has  so  much  of  definiteness,  so  much  of  tech- 

209 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

nical  beauty,  economy,  all  very  valuable  assets  for 
a  true  poet.  She  had  never  been  touched  with  the 
mania  for  journalistic  profusion.  She  cared  too 
much  for  language  to  ride  it.  She  cared  too  much 
for  words  to  want  to  whip  them  into  slavery.  She 
was  outside  of  them,  looking  on,  as  it  might  be, 
through  crystal,  at  their  freshness.  She  did  not  take 
them  for  granted.  They  were  new  to  her  and  she 
wanted  the  proper  familiarity.  She  worked  upon 
a  spiritual  geometric  all  her  own.  She  did  not 
run  to  the  dictionary  for  eccentricities,  she  did  not 
hunt  words  out  of  countenance.  They  were  natural 
to  her.  She  wanted  most  their  simple  beauty,  and  she 
succeeded.  She  had  dignity,  a  rare  gift  in  these 
times.  She  raises  herself  above  the  many  by  her 
fine  feeling  for  the  precision.  That  is  her  artistry, 
the  word,  the  thing  of  beauty  and  the  joy  forever 
with  her. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Adelaide  Crapsey  had 
no  more  time  for  the  miniature  microscopic  equa 
tions,  the  little  thing  seen  large,  the  large  thing 
seen  vividly.  She  might  have  spent  more  hours 
with  them  and  less  with  her  so  persistent  guest,  this 
second  self  at  her  side;  ironic  presence,  when  she 
most  would  have  strode  with  the  brighter  compan 
ion,  her  first  and  natural  choice.  Her  contribution 
is  conspicuous  among  us  for  its  balance  and  its  in- 
tellectualism  tempered  with  fine  emotions.  She  had 
so  much  to  settle  for  herself,  so  much  bargaining 
for  the  little  escapes  in  which  to  register  herself  con- 

210 


ADELAIDE  CRAPSEY 

sistently,  so  much  of  consultation  for  her  body's 
sake,  that  her  mind  flew  the  dark  spaces  about  her 
bed  with  consistent  feverishness. 

Reckoning  is  not  the  genius  of  life.  It  is  the 
painful,  residual  element  of  reflection.  One  must 
give,  one  must  pay.  It  is  not  inspiring  to  beg  for 
breath,  yet  this  has  come  to  many  a  fine  artist,  many 
a  fine  soul  whose  genius  was  far  more  of  the  ability 
for  living,  with  so  little  of  the  ability  for  dying. 
You  cannot  think  along  with  clarity,  with  the  doom 
of  dark  recognition  nudging  your  shoulder  every 
instant.  There  must  be  somehow  apertures  of 
peace  for  production.  Adelaide  Crapsey's  chief 
visitant  was  doom.  She  saw  the  days  vanishing, 
and  the  inevitable  years  lengthening  over  her.  No 
wonder  she  could  write  brevities,  she  whose  exist 
ence  was  brevity  itself.  The  very  flicker  of  the 
lamp  was  among  the  last  events.  What,  then,  was 
the  fluttering  of  the  moth  but  a  monstrous  intima 
tion.  If  her  work  was  chilled  with  severity,  it  was 
because  she  herself  was  covered  with  the  cool 
branches  of  decision.  Nature  was  cold  with  her, 
hence  there  is  the  ring  of  ice  in  these  little  pieces 
of  hers.  They  are  veiled  with  the  grey  of  many 
a  sunless  morning. 


"These  be 
Three  silent  things ; 
The  falling  snow, — the  hour 
Before  the  dawn, — the  mouth  of  one 
Just  dead." 

211 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

Here  you  have  the  intensity  once  more  of  Ade 
laide  Crapsey.  It  haunts  you  like  the  something 
on  the  dark  stairway  as  you  pass,  just  as  when,  on 
the  roadway  in  the  dead  of  night,  the  twig  grazing 
one's  cheek  would  seem  like  the  springing  panther 
at  one's  throat.  Dramatic  vividness  is  certainly  her 
chief  distinction.  No  playfulness  here,  but  a  stout 
reckoning  with  austere  beauty.  The  wish  to  record 
the  element  at  its  best  that  played  so  fierce  a  role  in 
her  life.  She  writes  her  own  death  hymn,  lays  her 
own  shroud  out,  spaces  her  own  epilogue  as  if  to 
give  the  engraver,  who  sets  white  words  on  white 
stone,  the  clue,  stones  the  years  stare  on,  leaving 
the  sunlight  to  streak  the  old  pathos  there,  and  then 
settles  herself  to  the  long  way  of  lying,  to  the  sure 
sleep  that  glassed  her  keen  eyes,  shutting  them  down 
too  soon  on  a  world  that  held  so  much  poetry  for 
her. 

The  titles  of  her  cinquains,  such  as  "November 
night",  "The  guarded  wound",  "The  warning", 
"Fate  defied",  and  the  final  touch  of  inevitability  in 
"The  Lonely  Death",  so  full  of  the  intensity  of  last 
moments,  intimate  the  resolute  presence  of  the  grey 
companion  of  the  covering  mists.  It  must  be  said 
hurriedly  that  Adelaide  Crapsey  was  not  all  doom. 
By  no  means.  The  longer  pieces  in  her  tiny  book 
attest  to  her  feeling  for  riches,  and  the  lyrical  won 
ders  of  the  hour.  Her  fervour  is  the  artist's  fervour, 
the  longing,  coming  really  to  passion,  to  hold  and 
fix  forever  the  shapes  that  were  loveliest  to  her. 

212 


ADELAIDE  CRAPSEY 

That  is  the  poet's  existence,  that  is  the  poet's  labour, 
and  his  last  distress.  No  one  wants  to  give  in  to  a 
commonplace  world  when  the  light  that  falls  on  it  is 
lovelier  than  the  place  it  falls  on.  If  you  cannot 
transpose  the  object,  transport  it,  however  simply, 
however  ornately,  then  of  what  use  is  poetry?  It  is 
transport ! 

Adelaide  Crapsey  was  efficient  in  her  knowledge 
of  what  poetry  is,  as  she  was  certainly  proficient  as 
workman.  She  was  lapidary  more  than  painter  or 
sculptor.  It  was  a  beautiful  cutting  away,  and  a 
sweeping  aside  of  the  rifts  and  flaws.  That  is  to 
say,  she  wanted  that.  She  wanted  the  white  ligh^of 
the  perfect  gem,  and  she  could  not  have  been  content 
with  just  matrix,  with  here  and  there  embedded 
chips.  She  was  a  washer  of  gold,  and  spared  no 
labours  for  the  bright  nuggets  she  might  get,  and  the 
percentage  of  her  panning  was  high.  But  the  cloud 
hung  on  the  mountain  she  clomb,  and  her  way  was 
dimmed. 

"In  the  cold  I  will  rise,  I  will  bathe 
In  the  waters  of  ice;     Myself 
Will  shiver,  and  will  shrive  myself 
Alone  in  the  dawn,  and  anoint 
Forehead  and  feet  and  hands; 
I  will  shutter  the  windows  from  light, 
I  will  place  in  their  sockets  the  four 
Tall  candles  and  set  them  a-flame 
In  the  grey  of  the  dawn ;    And  myself 
Will  lay  myself  straight  in  my  bed, 
And  draw  the  sheet  under  my  chin." 

213 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

There  could  be  no  more  of  resolute  finality  in 
this  chill  epilogue.  There  is  the  cold  of  a  thousand 
years  shuddering  out  of  this  scene,  it  is  the  passing, 
the  last  of  this  delicate  and  gifted  poet,  Adelaide 
Crapsey.  If  she  has  written  more  than  her  book 
prints,  these  must  surely  be  of  her  best.  She  took 
the  shape  of  that  which  she  made  so  visible,  so  cold, 
so  beautiful.  With  her  white  wings  she  has  skirted 
the  edge  of  the  dusk  with  an  incredible  calm.  No 
whimpering  here.  Too  much  artistry  for  that;  too 
much  of  eye  to  let  heart  rule.  The  gifts  of  Adelaide 
Crapsey  were  high  ones,  and  that  she  left  so  little 
of  song  is  regrettable,  even  though  she  left  us  a 
legacy  of  some  of  the  best  singing  of  the  day.  It 
is  enough  to  call  her  poet,  for  she  was  among  the 
first  of  this  hour  and  time.  She  had  no  affectations, 
no  fashionable  theories  and  ambitions.  She  sim-j 
ply  wrote  excellent  verse.  That  is  her  beautifull 
gift  to  us. 


214 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

IF  ever  a  meteor  fell  to  earth  it  was  Francis 
Thompson.  If  ever  a  star  ascended  to  that  high 
place  in  the  sky  where  sit  the  loftier  planets  in 
pleasant  company,  it  was  this  splendid  poet.  Stalk 
ing  through  the  shadows  of  the  Thames  Embank 
ment  to  find  his  clear  place  in  the  milky  way,  is  hardly 
the  easiest  road  for  so  exceptional  a  celebrity.  It 
is  but  another  instance  of  the  odd  tradition  per 
petuating  itself,  that  some  geniuses  must  creep  hand 
and  knee  through  mire,  heart  pierced  with  the 
bramble  of  experience,  up  over  the  jagged  pathways 
to  that  still  place  where  skies  are  clear  at  last. 
Thompson  is  the  last  among  the  great  ones  to  have 
known  the  dire  vicissitude,  direst,  if  legends  are  true, 
that  can  befall  a  human  being.  We  have  the  silence 
of  his  saviour  friends,  the  Meynells,  saying  so  much 
more  than  their  few  public  words,  tender  but  so  care 
ful.  What  they  knew,  and  what  the  walls  of  the 
monastery  of  Storrington  must  have  heard  in  that 
so  pained  stillness,  there,  is  probably  beyond  repeti 
tion  for  pathos.  De  Quincey  had  taught  him  much 
in  the  knowledge  of  hardship.  Whether  it  is  just 
similarity  of  experience  or  a  kind  of  imitation  in 
nature,  is  not  easy  to  say.  It  was  hardly  the  example 
to  repeat.  It  is  singular  enough  also,  that  De  Quin- 

215 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

cey's  "Ann"  should  have  become  so  vivid  a  repeti 
tion  to  Thompson,  in  just  the  same  terms. 

London  has  no  feeling  for  the  peace  of  poets. 
They  are  the  little  things  in  the  confused  maelstrom 
of  human  endeavor.  Poets  are  taught  with  the 
whip.  They  must  bleed  for  their  divine  idea,  or 
so  it  was  then.  Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  a  change 
had  come,  for  so  many  poets  sit  in  chairs  of  ease 
these  days.  Science  produces  other  kinds  of  dis 
comfort,  and  covers  the  old  misery  with  a  new  tap 
estry  of  contrasts.  I  doubt  if  many  poets  are  selling 
matches  these  days,  living  on  eleven  pence  a  day. 
There  is  still  the  poet  who  knows  his  cheap  lodging. 
There  seems  enough  of  them  still  for  high  minds  to 
crawl  into,  and  yet  there  is  another  face  to  the 
misery. 

Thompson  was  seraph  from  the  first.  You  see 
the  very  doom  burning  out  of  his  boy's  eyes  in  the 
youthful  portrait,  and  you  see  the  logical  end  in  that 
desperate  and  pitiful  mask,  the  drawing  of  the  last 
period  in  the  Meynell  Book.  His  was  certainly  the 
severed  head,  and  his  feet  were  pathetically  far 
away,  down  on  a  stony  earth.  That  he  should  have 
forfeited  the  ordinary  ways  of  ease,  is  as  consistent 
with  his  appearance,  as  it  was  necessary  to  his  nature. 
That  he  should  find  himself  on  the  long  march  past 
the  stations  of  the  cross,  to  the  very  tree  itself,  for 
his  poetic  purpose,  if  it  is  in  keeping  with  tradition, 
is  not  precisely  the  most  inspiring  aspect  of  human 
experiences.  Human  he  was  not,  as  we  like  to  think 

216 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

of  human,  for  he  was  too  early  in  his  career  marked 
for  martyr.  There  is  the  note  of  cricket-time  in 
his  earlier  life,  and  how  long  this  attached  to  the 
physical  delights  of  his  being  cannot  be  told  here. 
His  eyes  were  lodged  too  far  in  heaven  to  have 
kept  the  delights  for  long,  to  have  comprehended  all 
that  clogged  his  impatiently  mercurial  feet. 

"The  abashless  inquisition  of  each  star"  was  the 
scrutiny  that  obsessed  his  ways,  the  impertinence 
that  he  suffered  most;  for  he  had  the  magnitude  of 
soul  that  hungered  for  placement,  and  the  plague 
of  two  masters  was  on  him.  Huntress  and  "Houn  ' 
he  had  to  choose  between,  beauty  and  the  insatiable 
Prince;  harsh  and  determined  lovers,  both  of 
them,  too  much  craving  altogether  for  an  artistic 
nature.  The  earth  had  no  room  for  him  and  he 
did  not  want  heaven  so  soon.  He  was  not  saint, 
even  though  his  name  followed  him  even,  for  recog 
nition. 

"Stood  bound  and  helplessly,  for  Time  to  shoot 
his  barbed  minutes  at  me,  suffered  the  trampling 
hoof  of  every  hour,"  etc.,  all  this  confided  to  some 
childish  innocent  in  "The  child's  kiss".  Whom  else 
should  he  tell  but  a  child?  Where  is  the  man  or 
woman  with  understanding  but  has  the  "child" 
lodged  somewhere  for  sympathy,  for  recognition? 
The  clearest  listener  he  could  find,  and  the  least 
commiserative,  happily.  "The  heart  of  childhood, 
so  divine  for  me",  is  but  typical  of  a  being  so 
dragged,  and  emaciate  with  the  tortures  of  the  body, 

217 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

in  earth  places  where  no  soul  like  his  could  ever  be  at 
home.  What  was  Preston,  or  Ashton-under-Lyne 
to  him,  more  than  Kensall  Green  is  to  him  now? 
What  is  such  dust  in  his  sky  but  some  blinding  and 
blowing  thing?  What  is  there  for  singer  to  do  but 
sing  until  the  throat  cracks?  Even  the  larks  and 
the  thrushes  do  that.  They  end  their  morning  and 
evening  with  a  song.  He  was  brother  to  these  birds 
in  that  loftiness.  He  sang,  and  sang,  and  sang,  while 
flesh  fainted  from  hunger  and  weakness. 

Had  not  Storrington  come  to  him  in  the  dark 
places  of  London,  we  should  have  had  no  "Hound 
of  Heaven",  and  without  that  masterpiece  what 
would  modern  poetry  do?  He  sang  to  cover  up  his 
wounds  with  climbing  music.  That  was  his  sense  of 
beauty.  He  filled  his  hollowing  cheek  with  finer 
things  than  moaning.  He  might  have  wept,  but 
they  were  words  instead  of  drops. 

It  will  be  difficult  to  find  loftier  song  as  to  essences. 
We  shall  have  room  for  criticising  stylistic  extrava 
gances,  archaisms  of  a  not  interesting  order  for  us, 
yet  there  will  be  nothing  said  but  the  highest  in 
praise  of  his  genius.  Excess  of  praise  may  be  heaped 
upon  him  without  cessation,  and  it  may  end  in  the 
few  cool  yet  incisive  words  that  fell  from  the  lips  of 
Meredith,  with  the  violets  from  another's  wor 
shipped  hands,  "a  true  poet,  one  of  a  small  band." 
Poets  of  this  time  will  have  much  to  gather  from 
Thompson  in  point  of  sincerity.  There  is  terrific 

218 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

mastery  of  words,  which  is  like  Shakespeare  in  fe 
licity  we  do  not  encounter  so  often  it  seems  to  me. 

Thompson  has  scaled  the  white  rainbow  of  the 
night,  and  sits  in  radiant  company  among  the  first 
planetary  strummers  of  song.  His  diamond  is  pure, 
and  the  matrix  that  hid  him  so  long  from  showing 
his  glinted  facets  is  chipped  away  of  miseries  carried 
down  with  death.  They  will  soon  be  forgotten  by 
the  multitude  as  death  itself  made  him  forget  them. 
We  have  his  chants  and  his  anthems  and  plainsongs 
to  remind  us  of  the  one  essential,  of  how  lofty  a 
singer  passed  down  our  highroad.  "Dusty  with 
tumbling  about  amid  the  stars!"  That  is  what  he 
is  for  us  now,  if  he  rolled  in  too  much  clay  of  earth. 
Shelley  might  have  turned  his  own  handsome  phrase 
on  him,  for  they  both  strode  the  morning  of  their 
bright  minds  like  sun  the  sky,  with  much  of  the  same 
solemn  yet  speedy  gait.  There  are  times  when  they 
are  certainly  of  the  one  radiance,  lyrical  and  poetical. 
Their  consuming  intellectual  interests  were  vastly 
apart,  as  were  their  paths  of  spirit. 

I  think  we  shall  have  no  more  "dread  of  height". 
Poetry  has  passed  into  scientific  discovery.  Intel 
lectual  passions  are  the  vogue,  earth  is  coming  into 
its  own,  for  there  is  no  more  heaven  in  the  mind. 
We  are  showing  our  humanities  now,  and  the  soul 
must  wait  a  little,  and  remain  speechless  in  some 
dull  corner  of  the  universe.  Thompson  was  the  last 
to  believe.  We  are  learning  to  think  now,  so  poetry 

219 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

has  come  to  calculation.  Rhapsody  and  passion  are 
romantic,  and  we  are  not  romantic.  The  last  Rhap- 
sodist  was  Francis  Thompson,  and  in  the  sense  of 
lyrical  fervour,  the  last  great  poet  was  Francis 
Thompson. 


22O 


ERNEST  DOWSON 

IT  is  late  to  be  telling  of  Dowson,  with  the 
eighteen-nineties  nearly  out  of  sight,  and  yet  it  is 
Dowson  and  Lionel  Johnson  that  I  know  most  of, 
from  the  last  of  this  period.  Poles  apart  these  two 
poets  are,  the  one  so  austere  and  almost  collegiate 
in  adherence  to  convention,  the  other  too  warm  to 
let  a  coldness  obsess  his  singing.  There  doesn't 
seem  to  be  anything  wonderful  about  Dowson,  and 
yet  you  want  to  be  saying  a  line  of  his  every  now 
and  then,  of  him  "that  lived,  and  sang,  and  had  a 
beating  heart,"  ere  he  grew  old,  and  he  grew  old  so 
soon.  "Worn  out  by  what  was  really  never  life  to 
him,"  is  a  prefatorial  phrase  I  recall.  There  was  a 
genuine  music  in  Dowson,  even  if  it  was  smothered 
in  lilies  and  roses  and  wine  of  the  now  old  way  of 
saying  things.  "Come  hither  child,  and  rest — Be 
hold  the  weary  west,"  might  have  been  the  thing  he 
was  saying  to  himself,  so  much  is  this  the  essence 
of  his  lost  cause. 

There  is  a  languor  and  a  lack  of  power  to  lift  a 
hand  toward  the  light,  too  much  a  trusting  of  the 
shadow.  "I  have  flung  roses,  roses  riotously  with  the 
throng,  to  put  those  pale  lost  lilies  out  of  mind." 
Always  verging  on  a  poetic  feeling  not  just  like  our- 

221 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

selves  in  these  days,  and  yet  Dowson  was  a  poet. 
He  caressed  words  until  they  sang  for  him  the  one 
plaint  that  he  asked  of  them.  That  he  was  obsessed 
of  the  beauties  and  the  intimations  of  Versailles,  is 
seen  in  everything  he  did,  or  at  least  he  imbibed  this 
from  Verlaine.  He  was  himself  a  pale  wanderer 
down  soft  green  allees,  he  had  a  twilight  mind 
struggling  toward  the  sun,  which  was  too  bright  for 
him,  for  the  moon  was  his  brightest  light.  Echoes 
of  Verlaine  linger  through  his  verse  and  a  strain 
of  Poe  is  present,  poet  whom  he  with  his  French 
taste  admired  so  much,  two  very  typical  idols  for  a 
young  man  with  a  sentimental  journey  to  pursue. 
Lost  Adelaides,  to  keep  him  steeped  in  the  sorrow 
that  he  cherished,  for  he  petted  his  miseries  consid 
erably;  or  was  it  that  he  was  most  at  home  when 
he  was  unhappy?  He  would  rather  have  seen  the 
light  of  day  from  a  not  quite  clear  window,  for  in 
stead  of  a  clear  hill,  he  might  see  a  vague  castle  of 
his  fancy  somewhere.  He  hadn't  the  sweep  of  a 
great  poet,  and  yet  somehow  there  was  the  linnet  in 
him,  there  was  the  strain  of  the  lute  among  the 
leaves,  there  was  the  rustle  of  a  soft  dress 
audible,  and  the  passing  of  hands  he  could  not 
ever  hold. 

He  was  the  poet  of  the  lost  treasure.  "Studies  in 
Sentiment"  is,  I  think,  the  title  of  a  small  book  of 
prose  of  his.  He  might  have  called  his  poems 
"Studies  in  sentimentality".  And  yet,  for  his  time, 
how  virile  and  vigorous  he  sounds  beside  "Posies 

222 


ERNEST  DOWSON 

out  of  Rings",  of  his  friend  Theodore  Peters,  of  the 
renaissance  cloak,  the  cherry  coloured  velvet  cloak 
embroidered  in  green  leaves  and  silver  veinings,  so 
full  of  the  sky  radiance  of  Dowson  himself,  this 
cloak.  Cherry  sounds  red  and  passionate.  But  it 
was  a  cherry  of  olden  time,  with  the  bloom  quite 
gone,  the  dust  of  the  years  permeating  its  silken 
warp.  It  reposes  here  in  America,  the  property  of 
an  artist  of  that  period. 

One  likes  Dowson  because  of  his  sincerity,  and 
a  clear  beauty  which,  if  not  exactly  startling,  was  in 
its  way  truly  genuine.  It  was  merely  too  late  for 
Dowson,  and  it  was  probably  too  soon.  Swinburne 
had  strummed  the  skies  with  every  kind  of  song, 
and  Verlaine  had  whispered  every  secret  of  the 
senses  there  was,  in  the  land  of  illusion  and  vaguery. 
Dowson  was  worshipper  of  them  both,  for  it  was 
sound  first  and  last  that  he  cared  most  for,  the 
musical  mastery  of  the  one  and  the  sentimentality 
of  the  other.  He  was  far  nearer  Verlaine  in  tyge. 
He  had  but  the  one  thing  to  tell  of,  and  that  was 
lost  love,  and  he  told  it  over  and  over  in  his  book 
of  verse.  His  Pierrot  of  the  Minute  was  himself, 
and  his  Cynara  was  the  ever  vanishing  vision  of  his 
own  insecurity  and  incapability.  He  perished  for 
the  love  of  hands.  He  is  so  like  someone  one  knows, 
whom  one  wants  to  talk  to  tenderly,  touch  in  a 
friendly  way,  and  say  as  little  as  possible.  He 
comes  to  one  humanly  first,  and  asks  you  for  your  eye 
to  his  verse  afterward,  something  of  the  "Little  boy 

223 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

Lost",  in  his  so  ineffectual  face,  weak  with  sweetness 
and  hidden  in  shyness,  covered  with  irresponsibility, 
or  lack  of  power  to  be  responsible. 

He  was  a  helpless  one,  that  is  certain.  He  re 
sorted  to  the  old-fashioned  methods  of  the  decadents 
for. maintaining  the  certain  requisite  melancholy  ap 
parently  necessary  to  sing  a  certain  way.  In  the 
struggle  of  that  period,  he  must  have  seemed  like  a 
very  clear,  though  a  very  sad  singer.  There  were  no 
lilies  or  orchids  in  his  buttonhole,  and  no  strange 
jewels  on  his  fingers,  for  you  remember,  it  was  the 
time  of  "Monsieur  Phocas",  and  the  art  of  Gustave 
Moreau.  He  was  plain  and  sincere,  and  pathetic, 
old-fashioned  too  in  that  he  was  bohemian,  or  at 
least  had  acquired  bohemianism,  for  I  think  no  Eng 
lishman  was  ever  really  bohemian.  Dieppe  and  the 
docks  had  gotten  him,  and  took  away  the  sense  of 
mastery  over  things  that  a  real  poet  of  power  must 
somehow  have.  He  was  essentially  a  giver-in.  His 
neurasthenia  was  probably  the  reason  for  that.  It 
was  the  age  of  absinthe  and  little  taverns,  for  there 
was  Verlaine  and  the  inimitable  Cafe  d'Harcourt, 
which,  as  you  saw  it  just  before  the  war,  had  the 
very  something  that  kept  the  Master  at  his  drinks 
all  day. 

Murger,  Rimbaud,  Verlaine  had  done  the  thing 
which  has  lasted  so  singularly  until  now,  for  there 
are  still  echoes  of  this  in  the  air,  even  to  the  present 
day.  Barmaids  are  memories,  and  roseleaves  dried 
and  set  in  urns,  for  that  matter,  too.  How  far  away 

224 


ERNEST  DOWSON 

it  all  seems,  and  they  were  the  substance  of  poetry 
then.  Sounds  were  the  important  things  for  Dow- 
son,  which  is  essentially  the  Swinburne  echo.  Signifi 
cant  then,  that  he  worshipped  "the  viol,  the  violet, 
and  the  vine"  of  Poe.  There  was  little  else  but 
singing  in  his  verse  however.  His  love  of  Horace 
did  less  for  him  than  the  masters  of  sound,  excepting 
that  the  vision  comes  in  the  name  "Cynara".  But 
it  was  all  struggle  for  Dowson,  a  battle  with  the 
pale  lily.  It  was  for  this  he  clung  to  cabmen's 
lounging  places.  He  was  looking  for  places  to  be 
out  of  the  play  in.  He  couldn't  have  survived  for 
long,  and  yet  there  is  a  strain  of  genuine  loveliness, 
the  note  of  pure  beauty  in  the  verse  of  Dowson.  He 
was  poet,  and  kept  to  his  creed  with  lover-like 
tenacity. 

He  helped  close  a  period  that  was  distinguished 
all  over  the  world,  the  period  of  the  sunflower. 
Apart  from  its  wildest  and  most  spectacular  genius, 
it  has  produced  Lionel  Johnson  with  his  religious 
purity,  and  Aubrey  Beardsley.  It  was  the  time  of 
sad  and  delicate  young  men.  They  all  died  in  boy 
hood  really.  These  were,  I  think,  with  Dowson  the 
best  it  offered.  We  never  read  Arthur  Symons  for 
his  power  in  verse,  he  with  so  much  of  the  rose- 
tinted  afterglow  in  him,  so  much  of  the  old  feeling 
for  stage  doors  and  roses  thrown  from  the  boxes, 
and  the  dying  scent  of  lingerie.  His  essays  will  be  a 
far  finer  source  of  delight  for  a  much  longer  time, 
for  therein  is  the  best  poetry  he  had  to  offer. 

225 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

Dowson  was,  let  us  say  not  mockingly,  the  boyish 
whimperer  in  song.  He  was  ineffectual,  too  much  so, 
to  take  up  the  game  of  laughter  for  long.  That 
would  have  been  too  strenuous  for  him,  so  he  had  to 
sit  and  weep  tears  of  wordy  rain.  "II  pleut  dans 
mon  coeur"  was  the  famous  touch  of  his  master,  it 
was  the  loudest  strain  in  him.  That  was  the  lover- 
strain,  and  Dowson  was  the  lover  dying  of  love, 
imaginary  love  probably,  and  saw  everywhere  some 
thing  to  remind  him  of  what  he  had  pathetically  lost. 
If  there  had  been  a  little  savage  in  him,  he  would 
have  walked  away  with  what  he  wanted.  He  maybe 
did  have  a  try  or  two,  but  they  couldn't  have  en 
dured,  for  he  wasn't  loving  a  particular  Adelaide. 
That  was  the  name  he  gave  to  love,  for  it  was 
woman's  lips,  and  eyes  and  hands  that  he  cared  most 
for,  or  at  least  seemed  most  to  care. 

It  was  in  the  vision  that  crossed  his  ways  in  the 
dark  and  boisterous  taverns  where  love  finds  strange 
ways  for  expression,  that  the  singleness  of  feeling 
possessed  him.  It  was  among  the  rougher  elements 
of  dock  life  that  his  refinements  found  their  level. 
Dowson  sang  and  sang  and  sang,  until  he  grew  old 
at  thirty-three,  "worn  out  by  what  was  never  really 
life  to  him".  Aged  pierrot,  gone  home  to  his 
mother,  the  Moon,  to  bask  forever  in  the  twilight  of 
his  old  and  vague  fancies.  There  might  he  strum 
his  heart  out  in  the  old  way,  and  the  world  would 
never  hear,  for  it  has  lost  the  ear  for  this  kind  of 
song.  Perhaps  in  two  hundred  years,  in  other 

226 


ERNEST  DOWSON 

"golden  treasuries"  there  may  appear  the  songs  of 
Dowson  as  among  the  best  of  those  early  and  late 
singers  of  the  nineteenth  century.  We  cannot  say 
now,  for  it  cloys  a  little  with  sweets  for  us  at  this 
time,  though  it  was  then  the  time  of  honey  and 
jasmine,  and  the  scent  of  far  away  flowers.  Pierrot 
of  the  glass,  with  the  hours  dripping  away  in  fine, 
gold  rain.  That  was  the  genius  of  poets  like  Dow- 
son,  and  pierrot  was  the  master  of  them  all. 


227 


HENRY  JAMES  ON  RUPERT  BROOKE 

HENRY  JAMES  on  Rupert  Brooke !  Here  is  cer 
tainly  a  very  wide  interval,  separated,  artist  and  sub 
ject,  by  the  greatest  divergence  of  power,  and  one 
may  be  even  amazed  at  the  contrast  involved.  He  is 
surely,  James,  in  all  his  elaborateness,  trying  to 
square  the  rose  and  compute  the  lily,  algebraical  ad 
vances  upon  a  most  simple  thesis.  Brooke — a  nature 
so  obvious,  which  had  no  measure  at  all  for  what  the 
sum  had  done  to  him,  and  for  all  that  about  him,  or 
for  those  stellar  ecstasies  which  held  him  bound  with 
fervour  as  poet,  planetary  swimmer,  and  gifted  as 
well  with  a  fine  stroke  for  the  sea,  and  runner  of  all 
the  beautiful  earth  places  about  the  great  seas'  edge. 

For  me,  there  is  heaviness  and  over-elaboration 
paramount  in  this  preface  to  the  Letters  from  Amer 
ica,  excess  of  byword,  a  strained  relationship  with 
his  subject,  but  that  would  of  course  be  Jamesian, 
and  very  naturally,  too.  It  is  hardly,  this  preface, 
the  tribute  of  the  wise  telling  of  beautiful  and  "blind 
ing  youth",  surely  more  the  treatise  of  the  problemist 
forging  his  problem,  as  the  sculptor  might;  some 
thing  too  much  of  metal  or  stone,  too  ponderous,  too 
severe  let  one  say,  for  its  so  gracing  and  brightening 
theme,  something  not  springing  into  bloom,  as  does 

228 


HENRY  JAMES  ON  RUPERT  BROOKE 

the  person  and  personality  of  the  young  subject  him 
self.  Only  upon  occasion  does  he  really  come  upon 
the  young  man,  actual,  forgetful  of  all  but  him. 

There  is  no  question,  if  the  word  of  those  be  true 
who  had  relation  however  slight  or  intimate  with 
Brooke,  that  he  was  an  engrossing  theme,  and  for 
more  than  one  greater  than  himself,  as  certainly  he 
was  for  many  much  less  significant  than  James.  It 
is  distinguished  from  the  young  poet's  point  of  view 
that  he  was  impressed,  and  that  as  person  to  person 
he  really  did  see  him  in  a  convincing  manner,  as 
might  one  artist  of  great  repute  find  himself  un 
commonly  affected  by  the  young  and  so  living  poet 
with  more  than  a  common  gift  for  creation.  It 
seems  to  me  however  that  James  is  not  over  certain 
as  to  how  poetic  all  things  are  in  substance,  yet  all 
the  while  treating  Brooke  coolly  and  spaciously  as 
an  artist  should. 

I  did  not  know  Brooke,  and  I  know  nothing  of  him 
beyond  various  photos  showing  him  one  way,  quite 
manly  and  robust,  and  I  feel  sure  he  was  so,  and  in 
another  way  as  neither  youth  nor  man,  but  some 
thing  idyllic,  separate  and  seraph-like,  untouched 
mostly  with  earthly  experience.  These  pictures  do 
show  that  he  was,  unquestionably,  a  bright  gust  of 
England,  with  an  almost  audible  splendour  about 
even  these  poor  replicas,  which  make  it  seem  that  he 
did  perform  the  ascribed  miracle,  that  England  really 
had  brought  forth  of  her  brightest  and  best,  only  to 
lay  away  her  golden  fruitage  in  dust  upon  the  bor- 

229 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

ders  of  a  far  and  classical  sea,  with  an  acute  untimeli- 
ness.  But  respectfully  let  me  say,  I  think  much  in 
these  hours  of  the  incongruity  and  pathos  of  ex 
cessive  celebration.  There  shall  not  be  for  long, 
singers  enough  to  sing  high  songs  commensurate  with 
the  delights  of  those  numberless  ones  "who  lived, 
and  sang,  and  had  a  beating  heart",  those  who  have 
sped  into  the  twilight  too  soon,  having  but  a  brief 
time  to  discover  if  years  had  bright  secrets  for  them 
or  clear  perspective.  There  shall  always  lack  the 
requisite  word  for  them  who  have  made  many  a  dull 
morning  splendid  with  faith,  they  who  have  been 
the  human  indication  immeasurably  of  the  sun's  ris 
ing,  and  of  the  truth  that  vision  is  a  thing  of  reason. 
Of  Brooke  and  the  other  dead  poets  as  well,  there 
has,  it  seems  to  me,  been  too  much  of  celebration. 
But  of  Brooke  and  his  poetry,  which  is  a  far  superior 
product  to  these  really  most  ordinary  "Letters", 
there  is  in  these  poetic  pieces  too  much  of  what  I 
want  to  call  "University  Cleavage",  an  excess  of  old 
school  painting,  too  much  usage  of  the  warm  image, 
which,  though  emotional,  is  not  sensuous  enough  to 
express  the  real  poetic  sensuousness,  to  make  the  line 
or  the  word  burn  passionately,  too  much  of  the 
shades  of  Swinburne  still  upon  the  horizon.  Rose 
and  violet  of  the  eighteen  ninety  hues  have  for  long 
been  dispensed  with,  as  has  the  pierrot  and  his  moon. 
We  have  in  this  time  come  to  like  hardier  colourings, 
which  are  for  us  more  satisfying,  and  more  poetic. 
We  hardly  dare  use  the  hot  words  of  "Anactoria"  in 

230 


HENRY  JAMES  ON  RUPERT  BROOKE 

our  day.  To  be  sure  rose  is  English,  for  it  has  been 
for  long  a  very  predominant  shade  on  the  young  face 
of  England,  but  in  Brooke  there  is  an  old  age  to  the 
fervour,  and  in  spite  of  the  brilliant  youth  of  the 
poet,  there  is  an  old  age  in  the  substance  and  really 
in  the  treatment  as  well.  We  are  wanting  a  fresher 
intonation  to  those  images,  and  expect  a  new  ap 
proach,  and  a  newer  aspect.  It  is  not  to  adhere  by 
means  of  criticism  to  the  prevailing  graveyard 
tendency,  nor  do  we  want  so  much  of  the  easy  and 
cheap  journalistic  element,  as  comes  so  often  in  the 
so  named  "free  verse".  What  is  really  wanted  is  an 
individual  consistency,  and  a  brightness  of  imagery 
which  shall  be  the  poet's  own  by  reason  of  his  own 
personal  attachment,  and  not  simply  the  variance  of 
the  many-in-one  poetry  of  the  day. 

It  is  not  enough  to  write  passably,  it  is  only  enough 
when  there  are  several,  or  even  one,  who  will  give 
their  or  his  own  peculiar  contact  with  those  agencies 
of  the  day,  the  hour,  and  the  moment,  who  will  find 
or  invent  a  style  best  suited  to  themselves.  Attempts 
at  excessive  individualism  will  never  create  true  indi 
vidualistic  expression,  no  affected  surprise  in  per 
sonal  perversity  of  image  or  metaphor  will  make  a 
real  poet,  or  real  poetry.  There  must  be  first  and 
last  of  all,  a  sure  ardour,  the  poet's  very  own,  which 
will  of  itself  support  obvious,  or  even  slightly  de 
tectable,  influences.  It  is  not  enough  to  declaim 
oneself,  or  propose  continually  one's  group.  The 
single  utterance  is  what  is  necessary,  a  real  fresh- 

231 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

ness  of  vocalization  which  is,  so  to  speak,  the  singer's 
own  throat.  If  he  be  original  in  his  freshness,  we 
shall  be  able  to  single  him  away  from  the  sweeping 
movements  of  the  hour  by  his  very  "specialness"  in 
touch,  that  pressure  of  the  mind  and  spirit  upon  the 
page,  which  is  his. 

We  shall  translate  a  poet  through  his  indications 
and  intentions  as  well  as  through  his  arrivals,  and 
we  must  condemn  no  one  to  fame  beyond  his  capacity 
or  deserts.  We  have  never  the  need  of  extravagant 
laud.  It  is  not  enough  to  praise  a  poet  for  his  per 
sonal  charm,  his  beauty  of  body  and  of  mind  and 
soul,  for  these  are  but  beautiful  things  at  home  in  a 
beautiful  house.  In  the  case  of  Brooke,  we  have 
ringing  up  among  hosts  of  others,  James's  voice  that 
he  was  all  of  this,  but  I  would  not  wish  to  think  it 
was  the  wish  of  any  real  poet  to  be  "condemned  to 
sociability",  merely  because  he  was  an  eminently 
social  being,  or  because  he  was  the  exceptionally 
handsome,  among  the  many  less  so ;  or  be  condemned 
to  overpraise  for  what  is  after  all  but  an  indication 
to  poetic  power.  "If  I  should  die",  is  of  course  a 
very  lovely  sonnet,  and  it  is  the  true  indication  of 
what  Brooke  might  have  been,  but  it  is  not  the 
reason  to  be  doomed  to  find  all  things  wonHerful  in 
him.  For  in  the  state  of  perfection,  if  one  see  always 
with  a  lancet  eye,  we  really  do  accentuate  the  essence 
of  beauty  by  a  careful  and  very  direct  critical  sense, 
which  can  and  should,  when  honorably  exercised, 
show  up  delicately,  the  sense  of  proportion. 

232 


HENRY  JAMES  ON  RUPERT  BROOKE 

It  is  as  much  a  part  of  the  artist's  equipment  to 
find  fault  as  it  is  to  praise,  for  he  wants  by  nature  the 
true  value  with  which  he  may  relate  himself  to  the 
sense  of  beauty.  It  seems,  perhaps  only  to  me,  that 
in  Brooke's  poems  there  is  but  a  vigorous  indication 
to  poetic  expression,  whereas  doubtless  the  man  him 
self  was  being  excessively  poetic,  hour  and  moment 
together,  and  spent  much  energy  of  mind  and  body 
poetizing  sensation.  For  me,  there  is  a  journalistic 
quality  of  phrasing  and  only  very  rarely  the  unusual 
image.  As  for  the  "Letters",  they  are  loose  and 
jotty  in  form,  without  distinction  either  in  observa 
tion  or  in  form,  without  real  felicity  or  uniqueness. 
Art  is  nothing  if  it  is  not  the  object,  or  the  idea,  or 
experience  seen  in  review,  with  clarity.  In  Brooke, 
I  feel  the  super-abundance  of  joy  in  the  attractive 
ness  of  the  world,  but  I  do  not  feel  the  language  of 
him  commensurate  or  distinguished  in  the  qualities 
of  poetic  or  literary  art.  There  seems  to  me  to  be 
too  much  of  the  blown  lock  and  the  v/istful  glance, 
too  much  of  the  attitudinized  poet,  lacking,  I  may 
even  say,  in  true  refinement,  often. 

A  too  comfortable  poet,  and  poetry  of  too  much 
verve  without  incision,  too  much  "gesturing",  which 
is  an  easy  thing  for  many  talented  people,  and  there 
is  also  missing  for  me  the  real  grip  of  amazement. 
You  will  not  find  anything  in  the  letters  that  could 
not  have  been  done  by  the  cub  reporter,  save  possibly 
in  the  more  charming  of  the  letters  with  reference  to 
swimming  in  the  South  Seas.  Here  you  feel  Brooke 

233 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

at  home  instantly,  and  the  picturing  is  natural  and 
easy.  But  other  than  this,  you  will  find  no  phrasing 
to  compare  with  passages  of  James's  preface,  such, 
for  instance,  as  the  "sky-clamour  of  more  dollars", 
surely  a  vastly  more  incisive  phrase  regarding  the 
frenzies  of  New  York,  than  all  that  Brooke  essays 
to  tell  of  it.  Brooke  is  distinctly  "not  there"  too 
often  in  these  so  irregular  letters  of  his.  Letters 
are  notably  rare  in  these  times  anyhow,  and  so  it 
is  with  the  letters  of  Brooke.  We  look  for  dis 
tinction,  and  it  is  not  to  be  found,  they  have  but 
little  of  the  intimacy  with  their  subjects  that  one 
expects. 

As  to  his  poetry,  it  seems  to  be  a  poetry  rapidly 
approaching  state  approval,  there  is  in  it  the  flavour 
of  the  budding  laureate,  it  seems  to  me  to  be  poetry 
already  "in  orders".  Brooke  was  certainly  in  danger 
of  becoming  a  good  poet,  like  the  several  other  poets 
who  perished  in  the  throes  of  heroism.  Like  them, 
he  would,  had  he  lived,  have  had  to  save  himself 
from  the  evils  of  prosperity,  poetically  speaking. 
He  would  have  had  to  overcome  his  tendency  toward 
what  I  want  to  call  the  old-fashioned  "gold  and 
velvet"  of  his  words,  a  very  definite  haze  hanging 
over  them  of  the  ill  effect  of  the  eighteen-ninety 
school,  which  produced  a  little  excellent  poetry  and 
a  lot  of  very  tame  production.  Poetry  is  like  all 
art,  difficult  even  in  its  freest  interval.  Brooke  must 
rest  his  claim  to  early  distinction  perhaps  upon  the 
"If  I  should  die"  sonnet  alone,  he  would  certainly 

234 


HENRY  JAMES  ON  RUPERT  BROOKE 

have  had  to  come  up  considerably,  to  have  held  the 
place  his  too  numerous  personal  admirers  were  wont 
to  thrust  upon  him.  Unless  one  be  the  veritable 
genius,  sudden  laurels  wither  on  the  stem  with  too 
much  of  morning. 

This  poet  had  no  chance  to  prove  what  poetry  of 
his  would  have  endured  the  long  day,  and  most  of 
all  he  needed  to  be  removed  from  too  much  love  of 
everything.  The  best  art  cannot  endure  such  pro 
miscuity,  not  an  art  of  specific  individual  worth.  In 
the  book  which  is  called  "Letters  from  America", 
the  attraction  lies  in  its  preface,  despite  the  so  notice 
able  irrelevancy  of  style.  It  seems  to  me  that  James 
might  for  once  have  condescended  to  an  equal  foot 
ing  with  his  theme,  for  the  sake  of  the  devoutness  of 
his  intention,  and  have  come  to  us  for  the  moment, 
the  man  talking  of  the  youth.  He  might  then  have 
told  us  something  really  intimate  of  "Rupert",  as  he 
so  frequently  names  him,  for  this  would  indicate 
some  intimacy  surely,  unless  perchance  he  was 
"Rupert"  to  the  innumerables  whom  he  met,  and 
who  were  sure  of  his  intimacy  on  the  instant's  intro 
duction,  which  would  indeed  be  "condemned  to  socia 
bility". 

This  book  is  in  two  pieces,  preface  and  content, 
and  we  are  conscious  chiefly  of  the  high  style  and 
interest  of  the  preface,  first  of  all,  and  the  discrep 
ancy  inherent  in  the  rest  of  the  book  accentuating  the 
wide  divergence  between  praiser  and  praised.  It  is 
James  with  reference  to  Brooke,  it  is  not  Henry 

235 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

James  informing  of  the  young  and  handsome  Rupert 
Brooke.  Apollo  in  the  flesh  must  do  some  mighty 
singing.  Brooke  had  not  done  much  of  this  when 
they  laid  him  by  on  the  borders  of  that  farther  sea. 
He  had  more  to  prove  the  heritage  laid  so  heavily 
upon  him  by  the  unending  host  of  his  admirers  and 
lovers.  He  needed  relief  from  the  popular  notion, 
and  we  must  relieve  ourselves  from  his  excessive 
popularity  if  we  are  to  enjoy  him  rightly,  by  being 
just  with  him.  A  little  time,  and  we  should  have 
learned  his  real  distinction.  It  is  too  soon  for  us, 
and  too  late  for  him.  We  must  accept  him  more  for 
his  finer  indications  then,  and  less  for  his  achieve 
ment  in  the  sense  of  mastery. 


236 


THE  DEARTH  OF  CRITICS 

THERE  is  just  cause  for  wonder  at  the  noticeable 
absence  of  critics  in  the  field  of  painting,  of  indi 
viduals  who  are  capable  of  some  serious  approach  to 
the  current  tendencies  in  art.  We  have  witnessed  a 
very  general  failure  to  rise  above  the  common  or 
high-class  reportorial  level  in  this  particular  sphere. 
Why  do  so  many  people  who  write  specifically  about 
painting  say  so  little  that  really  relates  to  it?  It  is 
because  most  of  them  are  journalists  or  men  of  let 
ters  who  have  made  emotional  excursions  into  this 
field,  which  is  in  most  instances  foreign  to  them; 
well-known  literary  artists,  occasionally,  intent  upon 
varying  their  subject  matter. 

We  read  Meier-Graefe,  for  instance,  on  the  de 
velopment  of  modern  art,  and  we  find  his  analogies 
more  or  less  stimulating,  but  taken  as  a  whole  his 
work  is  unsatisfactory  from  an  artist's  point  of  view; 
not  much  more  than  a  sort  of  novel  with  art  for  its 
skeleton,  or  rather  a  handbook  from  which  the  un 
tutored  layman  can  gather  superficial  information 
about  group  and  individual  influences,  a  kind  of 
verbal  entertainment  that  is  altogether  wanting  in 
true  critical  values.  I  have  listened  to  lectures  on 

237 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

art  by  people  who  were  supposed  to  know  about  it, 
merely  to  see  how  much  this  type  of  critical  study 
could  satisfy  the  really  artistic  mind  somewhat  con 
versant  with  true  relations,  and  I  have  found  these 
lectures  of  but  the  slightest  value,  resumes  com 
pounded  of  wearisome  and  inappropriate  detail. 
There  is  always  an  extreme  lack  of  true  definition,  of 
true  information,  there  is  always  too  much  of  the 
amateur  spirit  passing  for  popular  knowledge  among 
these  individuals  who  might  otherwise  do  so  much 
to  form  public  taste  and  appreciation.  Thus  we  find 
that  even  the  chatty  Meier-Graefe  stops  without 
going  any  further  than  Cezanne.  It  is  possible  that 
after  writing  two  very  heavy  volumes  upon  the  de 
velopment  of  modern  art,  he  has  to  remain  silent  on 
modern  art  itself,  that  he  really  feels  he  is  not  quali 
fied  to  speak  upon  Cezanne  and  his  successors;  or 
does  he  assume  possibly  that  there  is  nothing  this 
side  of  Cezanne?  How  many  writer  people  are 
there  who  really  do  understand  what  has  taken  place 
since  then? 

I  have  heard  these  characteristic  remarks  among 
the  so-called  art  writers  who  write  the  regular 
notices  for  the  daily  journals — "You  see  I  really 
don't  know  anything  about  the  subject,  but  I  have  to 
write !"  or — "I  don't  know  anything  about  art,  but  I 
am  reading  up  on  it  as  much  as  possible  so  that  I 
won't  appear  too  stupid;  for  they  send  me  out  and  I 
have  to  write  something."  Their  attitude  is  the 
same  as  if  their  subject  were  a  fire  or  a  murder :  but 

238 


THE  DEARTH  OF  CRITICS 

either  of  the  latter  would  be  much  more  in  their  line, 
calling  for  nothing  but  a  registration  of  the  simplest 
of  facts.  Just  why  these  people  have  to  write  upon 
art  will  never  be  clear.  But  because  of  this  alto 
gether  trivial  relationship  to  the  theme  of  painting 
we  find  it  difficult  to  take  seriously  at  all  what  we 
read  in  our  dailies,  in  every  case  the  barest  notation 
with  heavily  worded  comment,  having  little  or  no 
reference  to  what  is  important  in  the  particular  pic 
tures  themselves.  How  can  anyone  take  these  indi 
viduals  seriously  when  they  actually  have  no  opinion 
to  offer,  and  must  rely  either  upon  humor  or  indigna 
tion  to  inspire  them? 

If  we  turn  to  the  pundits  of  criticism  we  find 
statements  like  this  of  Ruskin  on  Giotto : — "For  all 
his  use  of  opalescent  warm  color,  Giotto  is  exactly 
like  Turner,  as  in  his  swift  expressional  power  he  is 
like  Gainsborough!"  Again,  speaking  of  Turner's 
Fighting  Temeraire,  he  says:  "Of  all  pictures  of 
subjects  not  visibly  involving  human  pain,  this  is,  I 
believe,  the  most  pathetic  that  was  ever  painted — no 
ruin  was  ever  so  affecting  as  this  gliding  of  the  ves 
sel  to  her  grave."  Journalism  of  the  first  class  cer 
tainly,  but  at  the  farthest  stretch  of  the  imagination 
how  can  one  possibly  think  of  Gainsborough  or  Tur 
ner  in  connection  with  any  special  quality  of  Giotto  ? 
As  for  the  pathos  of  an  aged  ship,  that  belongs  to 
poetry,  as  Coleridge  has  shown;  sentiment  of  this 
kind  has  never  had  any  proper  place  in  painting.  A 
far  worthier  type  of  appreciation  in  words  is  to  be 

239 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

found,  of  course,  in  Pater's  passages  on  La  Gioconda 
and  Botticelli's  Birth  of  Venus.  But  these  belong 
to  a  different  realm,  in  which  literature  rises  to  a 
height  independent  of  the  pictures  themselves  by 
means  of  the  suggestion  that  is  in  them,  the  power  of 
suggestion  being  a  finer  alternative  for  crude  and 
worthless  description.  We  shall  always  dispute  with 
the  writer  on  art  as  to  exactly  what  symbol  is  in 
herent  in  the  presence  of  a  rose  in  the  hand  or  a  tear 
upon  the  cheek,  but  we  cannot  quarrel  when  the  mat 
ter  is  treated  as  sublimely  as  in  the  case  of  a  literary 
artist  like  Pater.  It  is  in  the  sphere  of  professed 
critical  judgment  that  the  literary  authorities  so 
often  go  astray. 

Thus  between  the  entertaining  type  of  writer  like 
Meier-Graefe  and  the  daily  reporter  there  is  no 
middle  ground.  The  journalist  is  frank  and  says 
that  he  doesn't  know  but  that  he  must  write;  the 
other  writes  books  that  are  well  suited  for  reference 
purposes,  but  have  scant  bearing  upon  the  actual 
truth  in  relation  to  pictures.  Are  there  any  critics 
who  attempt  seriously  to  approach  the  modern 
theme,  who  find  it  worth  their  while  to  go  into  mod 
ern  esthetics  with  anything  like  sincerity  or  real  earn 
estness  of  attitude?  Only  two  that  I  am  aware  of. 
There  is  the  intelligent  Leo  Stein,  who  seldom  ap 
pears  in  print,  but  who  makes  an  art  of  conversation 
on  the  subject;  and  there  is  Willard  Huntingdon 
Wright,  who  has  appeared  extensively  and  certainly 
with  intelligence  also,  both  of  these  critical  writers 

240 


THE  DEARTH  OF  CRITICS 

being  very  much  at  variance  in  theory,  but  both  full 
of  discernment  whatever  one  may  think  of  their  in 
dividual  ideas.  We  are  sure  of  both  as  being  thor 
oughly  inside  the  subject,  this  theme  of  modern  art, 
for  they  are  somehow  painter  people.  I  even  sus 
pect  them  both  of  having  once,  like  George  Moore, 
painted  seriously  themselves. 

Nevertheless  there  is  a  hopeful  seriousness  of  in 
terest  developing  in  what  is  being  done  this  side  the 
sea,  a  rediscovery  of  native  art  of  the  sort  that  is 
occurring  in  all  countries.  The  artist  is  being  taught 
by  means  of  war  that  there  is  no  longer  a  conven 
tional  center  of  art,  that  the  time-worn  fetish  of 
Paris  as  a  necessity  in  his  development  has  been  dis 
pensed  with ;  and  this  is  fortunate  for  the  artist  and 
for  art  in  general.  It  is  having  its  pronounced  effect 
upon  the  creative  powers  of  the  individual  in  all 
countries,  almost  obliging  him  to  create  his  own  im 
pulse  upon  his  own  soil;  it  is  making  the  artist  see 
that  if  he  is  really  to  create  he  must  create  irre 
spective  of  all  that  exists  as  convention  in  the  mind. 

How  will  this  affect  the  artist?  He  will  learn 
first  of  all  to  be  concerned  with  himself,  and  what  he 
puts  forth  of  personality  and  of  personal  research 
will  receive  its  character  from  his  strict  adherence 
to  this  principle,  whether  he  proceeds  by  means  of 
prevailing  theories  or  by  departure  from  them.  The 
public  will  thus  have  no  choice  but  to  rely  upon  what 
he  produces  seriously  as  coming  clearly  from  him 
self,  from  his  own  desire  and  labor.  He  will  realize 

241 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

that  it  is  not  a  trick,  not  a  habit,  not  a  trade — this 
modernity — and  that  with  fashions  it  has  nothing  to 
do;  that  it  is  explicitly  a  part  of  our  modern  urge 
toward  expression  quite  as  much  as  the  art  of  Corot 
and  Millet  were  of  Barbizon,  as  the  art  of  Titian, 
Giorgione  and  Michelangelo  were  of  Italy;  that 
he  and  his  time  bear  the  strictest  relationship  to  one 
another  and  that  through  this  relationship  he  can 
best  build  up  his  own  original  power.  Unable  to  de 
pend  therefore  upon  the  confessedly  untutored  lay 
writer  or  even  the  better  class  essayist  to  tell  him 
his  place,  he  will  establish  himself,  and  his  place  will 
be  determined  in  the  regime  of  his  day  by  precisely 
those  qualities  which  he  contributes  to  it.  He  will 
not  rely  too  insistently  upon  idiosyncrasy ;  the  failure 
of  this  we  have  already  seen,  in  the  post-impres 
sionists. 

fThe  truth  is  that  painters  must  sooner  or  later 
learn  to  express  themselves  in  terms  of  pure 
language,  they  must  learn  that  creation  is  the  thing 
most  expected  of  them,  and,  if  possible,  invention  as 
welLJ  Oddity  in  execution  or  idea  is  of  the  least 
importance.  Artists  have  a  more  respectable  service 
to  perform  than  this  dilettantist  notion  of  beauty  im 
plies.  Since  the  utter  annihilation  of  sentimentality, 
of  legend,  of  what  we  call  poetry  has  taken  place,  a 
richer  substance  for  expression  has  come  to  us  by 
means  of  which  the  artist  may  express  a  larger, 
newer  variety  of  matter,  more  relevant  to  our  special 
need,  our  modernity. 

242 


THE  DEARTH  OF  CRITICS 

The  war  disintegrated  the  art  habit  and  in  this 
fact  lies  the  hope  of  art.  Fads  have  lost  what  slight 
interest  they  possessed,  the  folly  of  imitation  has 
been  exposed.  As  a  result  of  this,  I  like  to  think 
that  we  shall  have  a  finer  type  of  expression,  a  richer 
kind  of  personal  quality.  Every  artist  is  his  own 
maker,  his  own  liberator ;  he  it  is  that  should  be  the 
first  to  criticise,  destroy  and  reconstruct  himself,  he 
should  find  no  mood  convenient,  no  attitude  com 
fortable.  What  the  lay-writer  says  of  him  in  praise 
or  blame  will  not  matter  so  much  in  the  future;  he 
will  respect  first  and  last  only  those  who  have  found 
the  time  to  share  his  theme,  at  least  in  mind,  if  not 
in  experience,  and  the  discerning  public  will  free 
itself  from  the  temporary  influences  of  the  con 
fessedly  untutored  critic.  The  artist  will  gain  its 
confidence  by  reason  of  his  own  sincerity  and  intelli 
gence.  It  is  probable,  too,  that  in  time  criticism  in 
the  mode  of  Ruskin  will  utterly  disappear  and  the 
Meier-Graefe  type  of  critic  will  have  found  a  fitter 
and  true  successor,  someone  who,  when  he  calls  him 
self  a  critic,  will  prove  a  fairly  clear  title  to  the 
distinction  and  will  not  have  to  apologize  for  himself 
or  for  his  occupation. "] 


243 


AFTERWORD 


THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  BEING  "DADA" 

WE  are  indebted  to  Tristan  Tzara  and  his  fol 
lowers  for  the  newest  and  perhaps  the  most  im 
portant  doctrinary  insistence  as  applied  to  art  which 
has  appeared  in  a  long  time.  Dada-ism  is  the  latesfNv 
phase  of  modernism  in  painting  as  well  as  in  literal 
ture,  and  carries  with  it  all  the  passion  for  freedom 
of  expression  which  Marinetti  sponsored  so  loudly 
in  his  futuristic  manifestoes.  It  adds  likewise  an  ex- 
hilarating  quality  of  nihilism,  imbibed,  as  is  said, 
rectly  from  the  author  of  Zarathustra.  Reading  a 
fragment  of  the  documentary  statement  of  Dada- 
ism,  we  find  that  the  charm  of  the  idea  exists  mainly 
in  the  fact  that  they  wish  all  things  levelled  in  the 
mind  of  man  to  the  degree  of  commonplaceness 
which  is  typical  of  and  peculiar  to  it. 

Nothing  is  greater  than  anything  else,  is  what  the 
Dada  believes,  and  this  is  the  first  sign  of  hope  the 
artist  at  least  can  discover  in  the  meaningless  im- j> 
portance  which  has  been  invested  in  the  term  ART/ 
It  shows  best  of  all  that  art  is  to  betake  itself  on  its 
own  way  blandly,  despite  the  wish  of  its  so  ardent 
supporters  and  suppressors.     I  am  greatly  relieved 
as  artist,  to  find  there  is  at  least  one  tenet  I  can  hold 
to  in  my  experience  as  a  useful  or  a  useless  human 
being.     I  have  always  said  for  myself,  I  have  no 

247 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

office,  no  obligations,  no  other  "mission",  dread- 
fullest  of  all  words,  than  to  find  out  the  quality  of 
humor  that  exists  in  experience,  or  life  as  we  think 
we  are  entitled  to  call  it.  I  have  always  felt  the 
underlying  fatality  of  habit  in  appreciation,  because 
I  have  felt,  and  now  actually  more  than  ever  in  my 
existence,  the  fatality  of  habit  indulged  in  by  the 
artist.  The  artist  has  made  a  kind  of  subtle  crime  of 
his  habitual  expression,  his  emotional  monotonies, 
and  his  intellectual  inabilities. 

If  I  announce  on  this  bright  morning  that  I  am  a 
"Dada-ist"  it  is  not  because  I  find  the  slightest  need 
for,  or  importance  in,  a  doctrine  of  any  sort,  it  is 
only  for  convenience  of  myself  and  a  few  others  that 
I  take  up  the  issue  of  adherence.  An  expressionist  is 
one  who  expresses  himself  at  all  times  in  any  way 
that  is  necessary  and  peculiar  to  him.  A  dada-ist  is 

Jone  who  finds  no  one  thing  more  important  than  any 

Jother  one  thing,  and  so  I  turn  from  my  place  in  the 
^scheme  from  expressionist  to  dada-ist  with  the  easy 

[grace  that  becomes  any  self-respecting  humorist. 

1  Having  fussed  with  average  intelligence  as  well  as 
with  average  stupidity  over  the  various  dogmatic  as 
pects  of  human  experience  such  as  art,  religion,  phil 
osophy,  ethics,  morals,  with  a  kind  of  obligatory 
blindness,  I  am  come  to  the  clearest  point  of  my 
vision,  which  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  the 
^superbly  enlightening  discovery  that  life  as  we  know 
is  an  essentially  comic  issue  and  cannot  be  treated 
other  than  with  the  spirit  of  comedy  in  compre- 

248 


THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  BEING  "DADA" 

hension.  It  is  cause  for  riotous  and  healthy  laughter, 
and  to  laugh  at  oneself  in  conjunction  with  the  rest 
of  the  world,  at  one's  own  tragic  vagaries,  concern 
ing  the  things  one  cannot  name  or  touch  or  compre 
hend,  is  the  best  anodyne  I  can  conjure  in  my  mind 
for  the  irrelevant  pains  we  take  to  impress  ourselves 
and  the  world  with  the  importance  of  anything  more 
than  the  brilliant  excitation  of  the  moment.  It  is 
thrilling,  therefore,  to  realize  there  is  a  healthy  way 
out  of  all  this  dilemma  of  habit  for  the  artist.  One 
of  these  ways  is  to  reduce  the  size  of  the  "A"  in  art, 
to  meet  the  size  of  the  rest  of  the  letters  in  one's 
speech.  Another  way  is  to  deliver  art  from  the\ 
clutches  of  its  worshippers,  and  by  worshippers^Jr 
mean  the  idolaters  and  the  commercialists  of  art. 
By  the  idolaters  I  mean  those  whose  reverence  for 
art  is  beyond  their  knowledge  of  it.  By  the  com 
mercialists  I  mean  those  who  prey  upon  the  igno 
rance  of  the  unsophisticated,  with  pictures  created  by 
the  esthetic  habit  of,  or  better  to  say,  through  the 
banality  of,  "artistic"  temperament.  Art  is  at  pres 
ent  a  species  of  vice  in  America,  and  it  sorely  and 
conspicuously  needs  prohibition  or  interference. 

It  is,  I  think,  high  time  that  those  who  have  the 
artistic  habit  toward  art  should  be  apprised  of  the 
danger  they  are  in  in  assuming  of  course  that  they 
hold  vital  interest  in  the  development  of  intelligence. 
It  is  time  therefore  to  interfere  with  stupidity  in 
matters  of  taste  and  judgment.  We  learn  little  or 
nothing  from  habit  excepting  repetitive  imitation.  I 

249 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

should,  for  the  benefit  of  you  as  reader,  interpose 
here  a  little  information  from  the  mind  of  Francis 
Picabia,  who  was  until  the  war  conspicuous  among 
the  cubists,  upon  the  subject  of  dada-ism. 

"Dada  smells  of  nothing,  nothing,  nothing. 
It  is  like  your  hopes:  nothing. 
Like  your  paradise:  nothing. 
Like  your  idols:  nothing. 
Like  your  politicians :  nothing. 
Like  your  heroes:  nothing. 
Like  your  artists :  nothing. 
Like  your  religions:  nothing." 

A  litany  like  this  coming  from  one  of  the  most 
notable  dada-ists  of  the  day,  is  too  edifying  for 
proper  expression.  It  is  like  a  window  opened  upon 
a  wide  cool  place  where  all  parts  of  one's  exhausted 
being  may  receive  the  kind  of  air  that  is  imperative 
to  it.  For  the  present,  we  may  say,  a  special  part 
of  one's  being  which  needs  the  most  and  the  freshest 
air  is  that  chamber  in  the  brain  where  art  takes 
hold  and  flourishes  like  a  bed  of  fungus  in  the  dark. 

What  is  the  use,  then,  of  knowing  anything  about 
art  until  we  know  precisely  what  it  is?  If  it  is  such 
an  orchidaceous  rarity  as  the  world  of  worshippers 
would  have  us  believe,  then  we  know  it  must  be 
the  parasitic  equivalent  of  our  existence  feeding  upon 
the  health  of  other  functions  and  sensibilities  in 
ourselves.  The  question  comes  why  worship  what 
we  are  not  familiar  with?  The  war  has  taught  us 
that  idolatry  is  a  past  virtue  and  can  have  no 

250 


THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  BEING  "DADA" 

further  place  with  intelligent  people  living  in  the 
present  era,  which  is  for  us  the  only  era  worth  con 
sideration.  I  have  a  hobby-horse  therefore — to  rid 
away  with,  out  into  the  world  of  intricate  co 
experience;  out  into  the  arena  with  those  who  kn^w 
what  the  element  of  life  itself  is,  and  that  I  have 
become  an  expression  of  the  one  issue  in  the  mind 
worth  the  consideration  of  the  artist,  namely  fluidic 
change.  How  can  anything  to  which  I  am  not  re 
lated,  have  any  bearing  upon  me  as  artist?  I  am 
only  dada-ist  because  it  is  the  nearest  I  have  come  to 
scientific  principle  in  experience.  What  yesterdav 
can  mean  is  only  what  yesterday  was,  and  tomorrow 
is  something  I  cannot  fathom  until  it  occurs.  I  ride 
my  own  hobby-horse  away  from  the  dangers  of  art 
which  is  with  us  a  modern  vice  at  present,  into  the 
wide  expanse  of  magnanimous  diversion  from  which 
I  may  extract  all  the  joyousness  I  am  capable  of, 
from  the  patterns  I  encounter. 

The  same  disgust  which  was  manifested  and 
certainly  enjoyed  by  Duse,  when  she  demanded  that 
the  stage  be  cleared  of  actors  in  order  to  save  the 
creative  life  of  the  stage,  is  the  same  disgust  that 
makes  us  yearn  for  wooden  dolls  to  make  abstract 
movements  in  order  that  we  may  release  art  from 
its  infliction  of  the  big  "A",  to  take  away  from  art 
its  pricelessness  and  make  of  it  a  new  and  engaging 
diversion,  pastime,  even  dissipation  if  you  will;  for 
all  real  expression  is  a  phase  of  dissipation  in  itself : 
To  release  art  from  the  disease  of  little  theatre-ism, 

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ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

and  from  the  mandibles  of  the  octopus-like  wor 
shipper  that  eats  everything,  in  the  line  of  spurious 
estheticism  within  range,  disgorging  it  without  in 
telligence  or  comprehension  upon  the  consciousness 
of  the  not  at  all  stupid  public,  with  a  so  obviously 
pernicious  effect. 

"Dada  is  a  fundamentally  religious  attitude, 
analogous  to  that  of  the  scientist  with  his  eyeglass 
glued  to  the  microscope."  Dada  is  irritated  by  those 
who  write  "Art,  Beauty,  Truth",  with  capital  letters, 
and  who  make  of  them  entities  superior  to  man. 
"Dada  scoffs  at  capital  letters,  atrociously."  "Dada 
ruining  the  authority  of  constraints,  tends  to  set  free 
the  natural  play  of  our  activities."  "Dada  therefore 
leads  to  amoralism  and  to  the  most  spontaneous  and 
consequently  the  least  logical  lyricism.  This  lyricism 
is  expressed  in  a  thousand  ways  of  life."  "Dada 
scrapes  from  us  the  thick  layers  of  filth  deposited 
on  us  by  the  last  few  centuries."  "Dada  destroys, 
and  stops  at  that.  Let  Dada  help  us  to  make  a  com 
plete  clearance,  then  each  of  us  rebuild  a  modern 
house  with  central  heating,  and  everything  to  the 
drain,  Dadas  of  1920." 

Remembering  always  that  Dada  means  hobby 
horse,  you  have  at  last  the  invitation  to  make  merry 
for  once  in  our  new  and  unprecedented  experience 
over  the  subject  of  ART  with  its  now  reduced  front 
letter.  It  is  the  newest  and  most  admirable  reclaimer 
of  art  in  that  it  offers  at  last  a  release  for  the  ex 
pression  of  natural  sensibilities.  We  can  ride  away 

252 


THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  BEING  "DADA" 

to  the  radiant  region  of  "Joie  de  Vivre",  and  find 
that  life  and  art  are  one  and  the  same  thing,  re 
sembling  each  other  so  closely  in  reality,  that  it  is 
never  a  question  of  whether  it  shall  or  must  be  set 
down  on  paper  or  canvas,  or  given  any  greater  de 
gree  of  expression  than  we  give  to  a  morning  walk 
or  a  pleasant  bath,  or  an  ordinary  rest  in  the  sunlight. 
Art  is  then  a  matter  of  how  one  is  to  take  life 
now,  and  not  by  any  means  a  matter  of  how  the 
Greeks  or  the  Egyptians  or  any  other  race  has  shown 
it  to  be  for  their  own  needs  and  satisfaction.  If 
art  was  necessary  to  them,  it  is  unnecessary  to  us 
now,  therefore  it  is  free  to  express  itself  as  it  will. 
You  will  find,  therefore,  that  if  you  are  aware  of 
yourself,  you  will  be  your  own  perfect  dada-ist,  in 
that  you  are  for  the  first  time  riding  your  own  hobby 
horse  into  infinity  of  sensation  through  experience, 
arid  that  you  are  one  more  satisfactory  vaudevillian 
among  the  multitudes  of  dancing  legs  and  flying  wits. 
You  will  learn  after  all  that  the  bugaboo  called 
LIFE  is  a  matter  of  the  tightrope  and  that  the  stars 
will  shine  their  frisky  approval  as  you  glide,  if  you 
glide  sensibly,  with  an  eye  on  the  fun  in  the  per 
formance.  That  is  what  art  is  to  be,  must  come  to 
in  the  consciousness  of  the  artist  most  of  all,  he  is 
perhaps  the  greatest  offender  in  matters  of  judgment 
and  taste;  and  the  next  greatest  offender  is  the 
dreadful  go-between  or  "middleman"  esthete  who 
so  glibly  contributes  effete  values  to  our  present  day 
conceptions. 

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ADVENTURES  IN  THE  ARTS 

We  must  all  learn  what  art  really  is,  learn  to  re 
lieve  it  from  the  surrounding  stupidities  and  from 
the  passionate  and  useless  admiration  of  the  horde 
of  false  idolaters,  as  well  as  the  money  changers  in 
the  temple  of  success.  Dada-ism  offers  the  first 
joyous  dogma  I  have  encountered  which  has  been 
invented  for  the  release  and  true  freedom  of  art.  It 
is  therefore  most  welcome  since  it  will  put  out  of 
use  all  heavy  hands  and  light  fingers  in  the  business 
of  art  and  set  them  to  playing  a  more  honourable 
and  sportsmanlike  game.  We  shall  learn  through 
dada-ism  that  art  is  a  witty  and  entertaining  pastime, 
and  not  to  be  accepted  as  our  ever  present  and  stulti 
fying  affliction. 


254 


